Only Human
by HelenLouise
Summary: Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart. WARNING: THIS STORY DEALS WITH PERMANENT INJURY AND DISABILITY. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS IS LIKELY TO CAUSE OFFENSE OR UPSET. Story complete.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING: THIS STORY DEALS WITH PERMANENT INJURY AND DISABILITY. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS IS LIKELY TO CAUSE OFFENSE OR UPSET.**

**Author's note: Okay, I'm starting off with a lengthy note because I'm really, **_**really**_** nervous about posting this fic. Some of you won't like this story and I agonised over only giving it a 'T' rating. It involves permanent, life changing, ****crippling**** injury. It also involves intense conflict – and I have been criticised for that in the past. In my opinion, such conflict is necessary to the plot and is therefore justified. Any seeming OOC-ness is also only brought about by the intense situations and emotions that the characters are dealing with.**

**I'm going to apologise in advance, because I know that this story won't go down well with everybody. All I can do is implore you to heed the warnings. If you don't like the subject matter, or the way that I deal with it, then please DO NOT READ THIS STORY.**

**That said, I'm going to repeat that warning one more time:**

**WARNING: THIS STORY DEALS WITH PERMANENT INJURY AND DISABILITY. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS IS LIKELY TO CAUSE OFFENSE OR UPSET.**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

By

Helen Louise

A persistent noise dragged Jesse Travis from his sleep what felt like just minutes after he had collapsed into bed. He was nearing the end of what was quite possibly the busiest week of his entire career. The hospital was short-staffed and the casualties never stopped coming. The on-call room had, of late, become more familiar to him than his own bedroom. In short, he was exhausted.

Amanda Bentley had seen it when his eyes had drifted shut halfway through a conversation and she wasn't going to be fobbed off by him merely grabbing a catnap on the nearest available couch. His extended shift was over and she took him home herself, not trusting him to drive in the state he was in. He wasn't due back on duty for six hours and, grateful to his friend for her insistence, had intended to sleep for at least five hours and forty minutes – in comfort and in his own bed. The noise immediately put paid to those plans.

At first he thought it was his alarm. He had been completely wiped and there was a strong possibility that he had set it wrong. He reached out blindly to slap at the offending object, but the noise persisted. It invaded his sleep fogged mind and forced him back to wakefulness.

It was, he eventually realised, his phone. It was ringing constantly, jarringly and making it impossible for him to even consider ignoring. As he sat up, he glanced at the clock, wondering if he'd had more than even a few seconds slumber. What he saw had the same effect as a bucket of cold water and he was instantly wide awake. It was close to ten a.m. and he was late. His shift had been due to start an hour ago; no wonder they were so keen to get in touch with him.

Hauling himself out of bed, Jesse shook his head. His eyes still felt gritty, his limbs heavy. His rest had done little to ease his exhaustion. But he answered the phone anyway, knowing that he had no viable excuse for being late. He was on the verge of telling whoever it was that he was on his way, when Amanda's voice sounded in his ear.

"Jesse, you have to get to the hospital right away." She sounded frightened, almost panic-stricken and a cold knot of fear settled in Jesse's stomach. This was not merely a reaction to him being late.

"Amanda?" he croaked, his voice sounding alien to his own ears.

"There's been an accident." There were tears in the pathologist's voice that carried down the phone line. "It's Mark."

Yesterday's clothes still lay in a heap on the floor where he'd discarded them, but he didn't have time to find anything clean. Amanda's words echoed round and round his head and he cursed himself for choosing this day, of all days, to oversleep. He should have already been there. He should have been in the ER, ready to treat Mark the moment that he arrived. Instead he was scrambling to get dressed. Sick dread made him clumsy and it seemed like an eternity before he dragged on his jacket and slammed the front door behind him.

It wasn't until he got outside that he realised his car was still at the hospital, Amanda having driven him home the previous night.

It was lashing down with rain and the wind felt as though it was blowing at close to gale force. He had no choice but to brave the adverse weather and stepped out onto the sidewalk to peer up and down the street. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't a cab in sight. Pulling out his cellphone – and praying for a strong enough signal – he called for one. Luck was finally on his side and the storm-affected reception proved to be just enough. Then could only stand, huddled in the doorway of his building, willing it to arrive as the minutes dragged by.

Some forty minutes after Amanda's frantic call and close to two hours late, Jesse finally arrived at Community General. The first person he saw was the pathologist as she rushed over to greet him.

"Jesse, they've just taken him to the OR." Tears streaked her face. "Oh God, he coded, Jess. They only just got him back."

"What happened?" Though Jesse was loathe to delay getting to his mentor's side, he needed some history. He couldn't just walk in there blind.

"There was a smash on the freeway, a bad one. I don't know what caused it, but Mark was trapped for over an hour." Amanda swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice calm. "He had a bad chest wound and he'd lost a lot of blood. The broken glass…" She shuddered at the memory of the sight of her dear friend being wheeled into the ER. "His arm… It looked like his arm was almost severed."

"Steve?" He didn't have to elaborate on that question.

"He's upstairs, he went with him." Another swallow. "God, Jess, I don't think I've ever seen him so scared."

Even as they were talking, they had entered the elevator and, when it arrived at its destination, Jesse could see the detective. He was pacing restlessly, pausing frequently to look at his watch.

"Steve!" Jesse greeted his friend, but then found that he didn't have anything to say to him. He couldn't simply say that everything would be alright, not when he knew so little about the situation. "I…" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the OR. "I should get scrubbed up."

Steve's glance towards him was distracted and he didn't answer the younger man. Shock had taken a firm hold of him and, as Amanda slipped a comforting arm around his waist, Jesse left them alone and hurried to where he prayed he could do some good.

* * *

Steve had stopped pacing about an hour after Amanda had managed to get him into the doctors' lounge. Two hours after that, she almost found herself wishing that he would start again. But he just sat at the table, staring at his hands that he held clasped in front of him. Nothing she said could get through to him and he had not so much as glanced at the constant mugs of coffee that she placed in front of him.

As the time dragged by, Amanda began to pace in his stead. She glanced frequently between the clock on the wall and the door. She just wanted to know that Mark was going to be alright. She, too, was not far removed from being in shock. She had seen Mark lying lifelessly in the trauma room; she had prayed as the shocks were run through his body, trying to restart his failing heart; she had genuinely thought that he was going to die.

And there was no-one to comfort her. She had sought to comfort Steve, believing that they could offer one another support during the indeterminable wait that lay ahead, but Steve had retreated deep within himself. She wanted to talk through her fears, prepare for the worst, offer some hope. But all of that was bereft from her and so she paced.

Eventually, though, she collapsed into the chair next to Steve and joined him in his silent contemplation of nothing. They sat like that for hours – for what felt like days – before the door quietly opened.

Amanda's head snapped up and Steve stood so quickly that his chair clattered to the floor as Jesse stepped into the room.

"How..?"

Steve's hoarse, fearful voice trailed off after only one word. Amanda couldn't even bring herself to speak as she took in the appearance of their friend: his pale face, the sadness in his eyes, the desolation that he had carried into the room with him. Suddenly she found that she wanted to run away. She wanted to hide, or just cover her ears so that she wouldn't have to hear what he had to say.

"He made it through surgery." Jesse offered them that reassurance first, but the words were spoken dully and held no hint of hope.

Steve wanted to scream at him, to demand what was so wrong, to force Jesse to say the unspoken 'but' that hung in the air between them. But his voice failed him. Like Amanda, he found that he preferred ignorance. What had gone wrong? Brain damage? Spinal injury? Paralysis? Steve didn't think he could bear to live with any of those. But this was his father they were talking about – who now lay in recovery – how could he not ask?

"What?" He croaked the word out, surprised by how difficult it was and a new sense of dread filled him as Jesse briefly closed his eyes. When they opened again, they were bright with unshed tears.

"I did everything I could." There was a pleading note in the young doctor's voice that chilled both Steve and Amanda to the very core. "God, I tried. Honestly, I tried everything, but the damage to the devascularized tissue..." He trailed off, remembering that it was Steve who he was talking to and sought some way to explain without descending into medical terminology. "I couldn't take the risk of toxicity from the tissue damage..." It was impossible. "The blood loss alone…"

Steve stood where he was, listening in complete incomprehension. He was being told something – something about his dad – and he couldn't understand. He saw Amanda sway slightly, saw the look of horror on her face and his frustration at having waited for so long manifested itself as anger.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded, crossing swiftly to where Jesse stood, but stopping short of actually grabbing hold of him. "Speak English, dammit!"

"Steve, I'm sorry. I…" Jesse forced himself not to flinch, nor to look away in the face of Steve's wrath. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't save his arm."

* * *

Jesse watched in silent horror as Steve staggered away from him and fell into the nearest chair. Amanda had also sunk into an empty seat and seeing the shock on both their faces only reinforced the guilt that he was already feeling. Making the decision to amputate Mark's left arm had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. But he had done it himself. It was such a drastic step, such a massive responsibility, that he wouldn't let anyone else do it. The consequences of the surgery would be borne by him alone. And seeing the devastation of those closest to him made his stomach clench with dread as he wondered how his mentor would react.

"You cut off his arm?" Steve's voice was a harsh, devastated whisper.

"I had to perform what's called an elbow disarticulation." Jesse moved to sit at the table alongside his best friend. "It means that he'll still have rotation…"

"You cut off his arm!" This time there was an accusatory note in Steve's voice and the look that he levelled at Jesse was murderous. "How could you do that?"

"Steve, I had no choice." Jesse's mouth was dry. He still hadn't got over his own shock at what he'd been forced to do. "The arm was almost severed and…"

"You finished the job!"

"No, Steve." Jesse fought to hold on to his composure, when all he wanted to do was weep at the injustice of it all. He glanced towards Amanda, but shock had seemingly robbed her of the ability to speak. He felt that he owed them both more of an explanation and, he realised, he needed to say the words aloud in order to justify it to himself. "There was no chance of reattachment, he was trapped for so long that the decay…"

"I don't wanna hear your excuses." Steve leapt to his feet, no longer able to control his fury. His father had lost an arm and he could see nothing beyond that fact. "You crippled him!"

"Steve…"

But the detective was beyond hearing anything else that Jesse said. He was suddenly assailed by memories of his dad. From when he was a little boy, Mark had always been there for him. He was strong and vital and lived life to the full. All of that was about to change. He'd be forced to quit the job he loved; who had ever heard of a one-armed surgeon? And how would he get around? He wouldn't be able to drive, he'd lose his independence. In short, his whole life was about to change – and none of it for the better.

Steve's anger was replaced by overwhelming sorrow and he slid back into his chair, feeling a sob rise in his throat. He didn't even try to suppress it, but covered his face with his hands and gave in to his grief.

Jesse couldn't just sit back and watch his friend suffer. The harsh words that had been flung at him, the unjust apportioning of blame, were forgotten as he watched Steve disintegrate before his very eyes.

Getting quickly to his feet, he crossed to where Steve sat and dropped into a crouch at his side. He laid a gentle, reassuring hand on his forearm.

"Steve, I understand how you must feel." Jesse's voice was soft and filled with compassion. "I know…"

"You know nothing." Steve's hands fell away from his face and he glared at the younger man, perversely satisfied to see him flinch away. "You butchered my father."

Jesse tried to find the words to explain why he had done what he had, but he could see nothing beyond the loathing in his best friend's eyes.

Then Steve seemed to realise that a slender hand still rested on his arm and he looked down at it. That hand had removed one of his father's. Suddenly, he couldn't bear the contact.

"Get the hell away from me," he snarled, pushing outwards to jerk his arm free.

Jesse, unbalanced in his crouch, fell backwards just as Steve got to his feet again. The detective's hands were balled into fists and he looked taller than ever from the doctor's prone position. He also looked terrifyingly angry and Jesse flinched as Steve towered over him.

"You stay the hell away from me from now on," Steve spat. "You stay away from me and my father."

Jesse scrambled to his feet, feeling too small and vulnerable down on the floor. He had never been afraid of Steve, but at that moment, the detective looked more than capable of physically attacking him. He reached out a supplicating hand, but it was batted viciously away.

"Get out of here, Travis. Get out of here and don't come back."

Fresh tears filled Jesse's eyes and his heart filled with despair at Steve's contemptuous use of his surname. Unable to do anything else and hurting more deeply than he'd ever thought possible, he fled the room.

After Jesse had gone, Steve allowed himself to give full vent to his tears. He had forgotten that he was still not alone. An invasive hand touched his hair and then followed when he tried to pull his head away. Moments later an arm was slipped around his shoulder and he unconsciously leant into the embrace, knowing from her scent that it was Amanda who held him.

"Steve," she whispered. The confrontation between Steve and Jesse had pulled her out of her stupor, but too late to intervene. Then she had watched Jesse flee, saw Steve break down completely and wondered which one needed her the most. It was the sounds of heartbreak that made her decision for her. Steve rarely cried and she had never heard him sob. She found that, no matter how much Jesse might be hurting, she couldn't abandon the detective.

"'Manda…" Steve raised his head and his face was ravaged by tears. "God, my dad… He… My dad…"

"I know, honey." Amanda's own voice was shaking and she wondered how she could possibly comfort the man when she could barely believe what had happened. "I know."

"Amanda? What's gonna happen now?" His voice was small, almost childlike and Amanda's heart ached at the sight of her friend looking so vulnerable.

"I… I'm not sure, Steve." She thought about the little that Jesse had told them. An elbow disarticulation. That meant his entire forearm was gone. "The important thing is that he's alive…"

"The important thing is that he's a cripple!" Steve retorted, his fury once again winning the battle of his emotions. He saw the shock on Amanda's face and was instantly contrite. "Oh God, I'm sorry." Fresh tears seeped from his eyes. "But… God… I don't know what to do."

Amanda was feeling equally helpless. She wanted to suggest getting a room for Steve, administering a mild sedative and trying to find some way to give him time to come to terms with what had happened. But she knew just how that suggestion was likely to be received. She couldn't even suggest that they go and visit Mark. He would still be in recovery, restricted from visitors and he would still be unconscious. And, when he did begin to come around, his awakening would have to be handled with infinite care. He was going to be faced with unbelievable trauma. She didn't envy Jesse that task one little bit.

_Jesse_. She had heard the cruel words that Steve had flung at the doctor and had wanted to leap to his defence, but had been unable to find the words. Now it was too late and Jesse, who had been forced to perform the surgery, must have been hurting as much as they. But how could she leave Steve in the state that he was in? The dilemma was resolved for her by the detective himself.

He raised his weary, tear-ravaged faced: "I need… I need to be alone for a while… to think, you know?"

Amanda nodded in silent understanding. Steve was strong and stoic and had always struggled to give voice to his feelings. He needed solitude in order to give full release to his emotions – something that he would never do in front of witnesses.

She gave his arm a final squeeze, but Steve had buried his head in his hands again and Amanda knew that nothing she could say would offer him any comfort. He would be held by his shock for a long time to come. She would be there for him when he was ready to talk. In the meantime, there was another of her friends who desperately needed her.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thank you all so much for the overwhelming response to chapter one of this story. Every word means a great deal to me. I hope you continue to enjoy this, but things are going to get worse before they get better… Please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Two.

Jesse didn't know how he ended up outside the recovery room but, when he next became aware of his surroundings, that's where he was. He drifted over to the window – unable to bring himself to actually open the door and go in.

Mark looked old. His face was grey and still, a bandage around his head concealed the familiar shock of white hair and more bandages swathed his chest. But the dressings that Jesse's eyes were drawn to, pristine and white, were wrapped around the unnaturally short left arm.

He closed his eyes as memories of the OR came back to him. He had walked in uninvited and unannounced, breaching etiquette and not giving a damn. Nobody had called him on it and the other surgeons had immediately deferred to his expertise. He had looked down at the mangled remains of what had once been an arm and he'd made the call. It was a decision that every surgeon would have made, but Jesse never gave anyone else the chance.

This wasn't just another patient who lay on the operating table. This was Mark Sloan, Head of Internal Medicine, role-model and mentor. More than that, this was his friend. And he was about to change his life forever.

Blinking away bitter tears, Jesse recalled the silence that had descended. Even though the decision had been a straightforward one, it was no less shocking and everybody in the room recognised just what a responsibility Jesse had taken on. And he took it on to the full. In the continuing hush, his had been the hands that reached for a scalpel and cut into the ruined flesh.

In spite of his efforts to keep them at bay, two tears trickled from Jesse's eyes. He kept telling himself that he'd had no choice, but that didn't prevent him from feeling guilty. Steve's reaction had only exacerbated that feeling and he wondered if he'd see the same condemnation in his mentor's eyes when he finally awoke.

Then a soft footfall behind him warned Jesse that he was no longer alone. He didn't turn around, didn't look to see who it was. He leant his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

"I had no choice," he whispered.

"Jesse…" Amanda could only breathe his name, her compassionate nature making her share his pain.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

The words were barely audible and Amanda sensed that they hadn't been for her to hear. They had been aimed at the still figure that lay beyond the glass. She couldn't stand it for a moment longer. Jesse was in pain and he was carrying a tremendous weight of responsibility on his slender shoulders. The very least that she could do was offer to share some of the burden. She swiftly crossed the distance that separated them.

"You saved his life," she reminded him, softly.

"Did I?" His voice was dispirited, defeated. "Then why does it hurt so much? You saw how Steve reacted. I get the feeling that Mark won't exactly thank me, either."

"Steve was upset." Amanda winced inwardly, realising just what an understatement that was. "He was scared and angry. You know what he's like, Jesse. He just lashes out."

"Yeah," Jesse answered on a sigh, sounding anything but convinced.

"It's a lot to take in." The pathologist slipped a comforting arm around his waist. She found her own gaze drawn to the injured man and she too stared morbidly at the remains of his arm. "It's hard to believe that something like this could happen."

"I cut off his arm, Amanda," Jesse suddenly cried. "I did exactly what Steve accused me of. I cut off his arm. Me." He held his hands out in front of him, fingers splayed, and looked down at them in disgust. "I did that to him."

"You had no choice." Amanda used his own words, in an effort to get through to him.

"There's always a choice." He reached up to rub his hands over his face and a muffled sob escaped him. "Oh God, Amanda. What have I done?"

"You did exactly what you had to do." Amanda gripped his shoulders firmly, recognising that delayed reaction had set in. "You did what any other surgeon would have done in your position."

Jesse's tear-filled eyes met hers and she could have wept at the depth of pain they contained. It was impossible to imagine how he must have been feeling and, as with Steve, there were no words that would ever help. Instead, she pulled him into a warm embrace and allowed her own tears to fall – even as his soaked her shoulder.

* * *

Eventually, Jesse drew in a deep, shuddering breath and gently disengaged himself from Amanda's embrace. He wiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Jess?" Amanda regarded him with open concern. He looked dreadful and was, she realised, barely holding himself together. "Why don't you go home?"

"Home?" The young doctor blinked at her, as though she'd spoken in a foreign language. Then he seemed to come to his senses. "Amanda, I can't go home. I've only just got here."

"Well, how about some coffee?" She didn't want to remind him of the hours that he'd spent in the OR – or point out the fact that he was still obviously exhausted and emotionally overwrought. She just wanted to get him to sit down. "And I'll bet you haven't eaten today."

Jesse's face blanched at the mere mention of food and he hadn't responded at all to her offer of coffee. Given what had happened the last time he was in the doctors' lounge, Amanda couldn't really blame him.

"I… I can't. I have to work…" He gestured vaguely towards the door of the recovery room. "I have patients… Mark…"

"Oh, Jesse." His mentor's name had emerged as a strangled sob and Amanda reached out to gently rub his back. "You're in no condition to work. Nobody would blame you if you went home – not after what you've been through."

"What do you mean after what _he's_ been through?" A sudden voice interrupted them. "What about what my dad's been through?"

Amanda felt Jesse stiffen beneath her touch – saw the way his head bowed – at the sound of Steve's furious voice.

"You might as well go home, Travis," the detective spat, moving to stand between him and the recovery room. "Because there's no way you're going through that door. Get him out of here, Amanda." He stood with his feet apart and his arms folded across his chest. "I won't have _him_ going anywhere near my dad. Ever again."

"Steve." Amanda knew that the detective was still distraught – still lashing out for all the wrong reasons – but she couldn't let him carry on torturing Jesse in such a way. The young doctor obviously didn't need any help in shouldering the blame for what had happened. She had to make them both see that the tragedy was nobody's fault. "Steve, you have to understand: I was here when Mark was brought in. I saw the state…"

"Yeah, you were here, weren't you?" Steve interrupted. He was hearing only what he wanted to – and he didn't want to hear anything that might calm him down. He needed to hold on to his anger, needed it to focus on so that he wouldn't have to contemplate the future. His eyes were cold as he continued: "Where the hell were you, Travis?"

Finally, Jesse looked up and his features were suffused with remorse. He should have been at the hospital, but he had been sleeping. He shook his head minutely, knowing that he deserved Steve's hatred.

"Answer me, dammit. Where were you?" Steve moved quickly and grabbed hold of the young doctor's lapels. He made no attempt to keep a reign on his temper and almost lifted Jesse off his feet. "Amanda was paging you, I heard her. So where the hell were you?"

Jesse could barely comprehend what was happening. Steve hated him – he had every right to. Hate wasn't even a strong enough word for what he felt about himself. And Amanda – even though she'd been trying to defend him – had added to his condemnation. She had been paging him, desperately trying to contact him, and he hadn't been there. He had let them all down.

"Answer me, dammit!"

"That's enough, Steve!" Amanda broke in, grabbing hold of Steve's arm as he began to shake the smaller man. Her face was streaked with tears at having witnessed the ugly scene between the two men; both of whom she loved as brothers. "Let him go," she implored. "Please, let him go."

Steve did as he was asked, pushing Jesse forcefully away from him and causing him to stagger but not to fall.

"Please, Steve." Amanda didn't even notice that the detective had complied with her wishes. It was all too much for her. She, too, had to come to terms with what had happened and she had not been given the chance to do that. She had been so busy trying to look after her close friends that she had not given a single thought as to who would look after her. "Please." Her voice broke and she collapsed to her knees. "Please, he's my friend, too."

Jesse watched the scene unfold before him but he no longer had the strength or the spirit to intervene. He saw Steve drop to his knees at Amanda's side, saw him wrap his arms around her and he knew that he should have been a part of it. But Steve's accusations still weighed heavily on his heart and he wondered if Amanda – even deep down inside – felt the same way.

So he just watched Steve and Amanda as they shared their heartache and he felt another little part of him die inside. He wasn't going to be missed. They wouldn't notice if he simply sloped away. And, in doing so, he could escape from the bitter condemnation that he needed no help in accepting.

He knew that there were things he should have been doing. He should have been contacting other doctors, selecting the people he needed, building the support structure that Mark would need on his awakening. Helping Mark come to terms with – and then adapt to – his disability was not a job for one man alone.

But it felt as though he no longer had the right to be making such decisions. He wondered if he still had the right to call himself a doctor.

Blessedly ignored by those he strove to escape from, Jesse wandered down the corridor and away from the greatest failure of his career.

* * *

Somehow he made his way back to his car. The journey through Community General was hazy in his mind, but he did recall seeing people step away from him as he approached. He did recall how nobody ever spoke to him. And he did recall, with amazing clarity, the look of pity on every face that he had encountered.

He sat in his Mustang, leaned his head against the cool upholstery and closed his eyes.

"_You crippled my father."_

Jesse gasped in a breath and his eyes shot open. Steve's voice had been so clear that he could have sworn the detective was right next to him. But the passenger seat was empty.

"_You butchered him."_

Again Jesse started in surprise at the clarity of the memory. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images both from the OR and of what had happened afterwards.

True reaction set in a moment later and he covered his face with his hands as hoarse, braying sobs were torn from him – and he had nothing left in his defences to stop them.

* * *

"It's okay, everything's gonna be okay. It's alright. You'll see, everything will turn out alright."

The words were a soothing litany to Amanda's ears and she welcomed the assurances they offered. Then, gradually, her senses returned to normal and she felt only dismay as she realised who was uttering those words. Next, she became painfully aware that Steve's embrace was overly tight and that he was rocking her with more than a little vigour.

"It's alright. Everything's gonna be alright."

Her sudden bout of tears, her release from the constant stress that she had been under, had helped Amanda to regain at least a little of her equilibrium. She instantly recognised that shock had caught up with Steve – and with a vengeance. Again, her own devastation had to be put on hold and she wondered how long she could keep this up.

"Steve," she murmured, cupping the back of his head with one hand. "Steve, look at me."

"I'm here, Amanda. It's alright."

Steve's grip tightened even more and she sucked in a pained breath. Stiffening her spine in an effort to stop the desperate rocking, she used her free hand to tilt his chin upwards. Their faces were so close that they were almost touching and, absurdly, it fleetingly occurred to her that anyone chancing upon them at that moment would jump to some wholly wrong conclusions.

Then she looked into her friend's glazed eyes and full understanding dawned. The detective's lips were still moving, the same mindless reassurances were still being uttered, but it was obvious that he was no longer even aware of what he was saying.

Amanda suppressed a sigh, feeling herself on the verge of complete despair. Steve had descended into full-blown shock and now his instincts had kicked in. She knew the detective well – knew how seriously he took his responsibilities – and his primary instinct was to protect. His strange behaviour was, for him, nothing more than a coping mechanism.

"It's okay…"

The words were getting fainter, spoken more to himself than to her and – with some gentle words of her own – Amanda carefully manoeuvred them to their feet. Still Steve would not relinquish his grip on her and she no longer tried to fight it. She walked him down the corridor towards a door that she could see stood open.

It was only when she tried to walk him towards the bed that things got difficult. Steve balked at the sight of it and then turned on her with accusing eyes.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his shock temporarily being overshadowed by his ever-present anger. "What? You think I can just go to sleep? I have to work…" He frowned and shook his head. "I have to find out… I have to…"

Amanda closed her eyes briefly at the supplicating look that was suddenly aimed in her direction. She understood only too well. It was in Steve's very nature – a part of who he was – to feel the need to be doing something. His helplessness in the current situation was only making things worse. She turned her back on him, trying to steel herself for what she was about to do.

"Steve, you need to calm down." Her voice was tight with barely suppressed emotion. "You're in shock and you need rest and…"

"I _need_ to be with my father!" Steve roared and surged towards the still open door.

The sudden movement almost caught Amanda off guard. She had been reasoning – and arguing – with herself, trying to convince herself that she was doing the right thing. Steve's drastic action negated the need for any further internal debate.

Surprising herself with the speed of her reflexes, she caught hold of the detective's arm as he passed her. With a deft flick of her thumb, she removed the protective cover from the hypodermic needle that she held. A moment later, it was buried in Steve's bicep.

"'Manda?"

The pathologist averted her gaze, unable to bear the look of wounded betrayal that Steve directed at her. She had retrieved the syringe on her way to talk to Jesse – knowing that, for one reason or another, chances were she was going to need it. She had been right – but not in the way she had expected.

Jesse might be hurting, but Steve was on a path of self-destruction – and mere words were never going to bring it to a halt.

"I'm sorry, Steve," she murmured, even as his legs buckled.

She used her firm grip on his arm to guide him back towards the bed. The detective offered no resistance as she carefully helped him onto it and, within moments, his eyes had drifted shut.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Thank you for the reviews. I'm sorry, but I'll keep on saying it: please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Three.

"Doctor Bentley?" A gentle hand shook her shoulder and she tried to shrug it away. But it persisted. "Amanda?"

Reluctantly, Amanda blinked her eyes open. It felt as though it had only been scant seconds since she'd closed them. She couldn't even remember falling asleep and it wasn't until she became more aware of her surroundings that she recalled collapsing into a chair next to Steve's bed.

"Amanda!"

The voice was more insistent now that her eyes were open and she looked up at the man who had disturbed her.

"Huh?" Her mouth felt fuzzy, her eyes were gritty and her brain hadn't quite caught up with the rest of her. Then recognition kicked in. "Kirk," she murmured. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." Doctor Kirk Fitzpatrick squared his shoulders. "I need to speak to Doctor Travis, but I can't find him anywhere."

"Jesse's missing?" Amanda rubbed tiredly at her eyes, trying to make some sense of what she was being told. Sudden, vicious memories sprang to the forefront of her mind. Harsh words, ugly accusations – and tears. So, so many tears.

"I was in the OR with him," Kirk explained. "And then he insisted on coming to speak to you and Detective Sloan. I thought I'd give him a little time before I spoke to him about post-op care, but now I can't find him."

Amanda's mind drifted back to the corridor outside the recovery room. She remembered Jesse's devastation, Steve's assault on him and her own breakdown. Where had he gone from there? She didn't know. For all she knew, he could have still been standing there where Steve had pushed him. But she did know that, wherever he was, he was in no condition to be doing anything.

"Can't you do this without him?" She saw surprise flash across her colleague's features. "At least for now."

"Amanda, Jesse is Doctor Sloan's surgeon. I told you that I was in there with him, but I've never seen anything like it in my entire career. Jesse was so strong, so assured. God, this was Mark Sloan on the table." Barely suppressed pain in his voice reminded Amanda that the morning's events would affect everybody in the hospital and not just those closest to Mark. He was a loved and respected man. "And Jesse was…" He shook his head; quiet awe replacing the hurt. "He was unbelievable… It was the most incredible display of professionalism I have ever seen. I can't even imagine what must have been going through his mind. But he never flinched, never faltered… And I can't go over his head now. I can't try and take over."

"Kirk, I'm sorry." It hurt Amanda's heart to hear just what had happened in the OR. Jesse may have done his job to perfection, but now he was paying the ultimate price.

"Somebody's going to have to."

* * *

Surgeons, physical therapists, physiatrists, prosthetists, psychologists. The words buzzed around Jesse's head, breaking through his devastation and forcing his professionalism back to the fore. That was the team he needed. That was the support Mark would need to help him get through his life changing accident. As the chief surgeon in charge of his case, as the head of the ER, it should have been his job to pull that team together.

He had contacted none of them.

A resurgence of guilt rushed up to further torment his already tortured senses. He was hiding – and crying – in his car and, all the while that he sat there, he was neglecting the needs of his patient. But by returning to the hospital, he would run the risk of encountering the very last person that he wanted to face.

Jesse had never considered himself to be a coward – not that he saw himself as being especially brave – but the thought of having another confrontation with the man he had considered to be his best friend filled him with terror.

But Mark's needs had to come first. He would awaken eventually and, when he did, the support structure would already have to be in place so that his care could begin immediately. Jesse wondered how much precious time his own selfishness had wasted. He squinted at the clock on the dashboard, frowning as he read its digital display. It did little to enlighten him. It should have helped his agile mind to quickly calculate the effects and dosage of the anaesthetic and – allowing for the individuality of each patient – to come up with an approximate time for Mark's return to consciousness. Instead, it merely told him that it was half past six.

He blinked and the clock ticked over another minute, but still he remained in ignorance. It never occurred to him that his inability to do the calculation was down to the simple fact that he had not so much as glanced at a timepiece from the moment he had arrived at the hospital. All he knew was that he had no idea as to when he might expect Mark to awaken. In fact, it could be happening even as he sat there. Or it could have happened already.

That one simple thought spurred Jesse into action and he dragged his cellphone from his pocket.

Then he could only stare uselessly at the instrument lying in his hands as he tried to make some sense of his thoughts. Who should he call? He blinked, trying to stop his vision from blurring, trying to focus on the handset of the phone. It was hopeless. He couldn't think straight. He didn't know who was on duty or who was on call. He didn't know anything any more.

How was he supposed to choose the best people for the job, when it was patently obvious that he was not included amongst their number?

He rubbed one hand over his still teary eyes and then pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to do this. He had to get Mark the care that he needed. He had to fulfil one last duty for his friend.

But his mind remained stubbornly blank – he was too distracted by everything else that had happened that day. It was impossible for him to concentrate and that only served to make him feel even more worthless. It should have been an easy task, but he was woefully inadequate to perform it. He was failing Mark all over again.

His mind's eye was filled with images of the OR – and of the fury that Steve had directed at him. His inability to perform this one, simple task only added to his sense of failure – to his ruthless self-condemnation.

Jesse wasn't the type of man to abrogate his responsibilities, but he could see no other choice. Mark's needs had to come first and he tried to think rationally. Who else had been in the OR? Who was the surgeon he had so rudely burst in on and taken control from?

He now knew that he shouldn't have done it. If he hadn't been so arrogant and insisted on being the one to take care of Mark then the outcome might have been wholly different. And Mark's continuing care wouldn't now be being so neglected.

With startling clarity, he recalled the moment that he had burst into the OR; that a masked face had been raised in surprise, before instantly disappearing from view – silently allowing him to take over.

Slowly, he began to dial.

* * *

"I mean it, Kirk." Amanda had taken her colleague out into the corridor – not wanting to risk disturbing Steve, but needing to be able to keep an eye on him. "It wasn't easy…" She shook her head, barely holding herself together. "Somebody has to take charge. Jesse was…"

A voice over the tannoy spoke at the same time as Amanda, calling Doctor Fitzpatrick to the telephone. Flashing the pathologist an apologetic smile, Kirk headed down the corridor to take his call.

Helplessness churned in Amanda's gut. There was only so much that she, alone, could do – and yet so much more was being demanded of her. Three people badly needed her and yet circumstance was forcing her to neglect two out of those three.

She turned her weary gaze back into the room where Steve still slept. He would only be out of it for a couple more hours – she'd only dosed him with the mildest sedative – and so she was reluctant to leave. More than anything, she didn't want him to be alone when he woke up. Her desire for that not to happen even overrode her fear of what the detective's reaction would be to being forcibly drugged.

Then there was Mark – another whom she wanted to be by the side of when consciousness returned. He was going to be facing, quite possibly, the biggest shock of his life and would need his friends around him.

Finally, she turned her thoughts to Jesse. He was nowhere to be found – even though he should have been making arrangements for Mark's post-op care. She knew that he would never willingly shirk his responsibilities and yet she also knew how deeply he was hurting. Steve's words and actions – whatever his reasons – would have wounded him deeply. He needed a friend at his side to remind him that he had done what he'd done to save Mark's life; that, without him, they would be mourning the passing of a truly great man.

But how could she be with all three of them? How could she be strong for them all when, inside, she felt ready to fall apart?

* * *

"Kirk, it's Jesse Travis." Jesse's mouth was dry and he hated the way that his voice shook, but he had no choice but to continue. "I need to… I need to talk to you…"

"Jesse…"

There was such compassion in his colleague's voice that, still sitting in his car, he had to blink away fresh tears.

"Please, Kirk, just listen to me." He had to do this now, without interruption, before he lost it completely. "I… I can't… I haven't…"

"Jesse, are you alright?" Kirk's concern at the barely audible words was evident in his voice.

"No," Jesse admitted, to himself as much as to his colleague. "No, I'm not. Kirk, I need you to… I need for you to take over the care of… of a patient…"

"You're talking about Mark Sloan." It didn't take a genius to work that one out and, following his conversation with Amanda, Kirk felt his own apprehension grow. "Jesse, where are you? Doctor Bentley's worried about you. Hell, I'm worried about you."

"Please…" Jesse closed his eyes, not wanting to hear about their concern, knowing that he didn't deserve it. "I haven't… I haven't done anything… I'm sorry…"

"Jesse?"

"I haven't contacted anybody… I need you to do that… to do everything… I'm so sorry."

Kirk looked back down the corridor to where Amanda stood and silently prayed that she would turn towards him, so that he could wave her over and seek her help, but her gaze remained fixed on the window to Steve's room.

"You have to be there for him…" The young doctor's voice was little more than a whisper. "You have to… when he wakes up… Tell him… tell him I'm sorry."

"Jesse!" Kirk tried again to reach his colleague, but the phone went suddenly dead.

* * *

Jesse's eyes were dry as he turned the key in the Mustang's ignition and gunned the engine to life. He had done what he had to do; he had turned Mark's care over to someone who could provide it. Now there was nothing left to keep him at the hospital.

There was nothing left to keep him in LA.

He kept his mind focussed on the road as he pulled onto the freeway. Instinct caused him to head towards his apartment but, even as he drove along the familiar route, he wondered why he bothered.

The life that he had built for himself in LA was over. His life might well have been over – period. The jury was still out on that one.

Everything that he held dear had been torn from him. Steve had been the best friend he'd ever had – more of a brother than a friend. And Mark…

He allowed his thoughts to linger on Mark for a while. He had been so much more than a mentor and friend; so much more even than a surrogate father. He had been his inspiration, his role-model, the man who he would do anything for, the man who had driven him to become the best possible doctor he could be.

The man that he had failed.

Jesse drew his car to a halt outside his apartment complex and looked up at its featureless façade. He couldn't even think of it as home; the beach house had always been more of a home to him – but now he knew even that had been taken away. He would no longer be welcome there.

He truly had nothing left.

* * *

"Amanda, you were right." Kirk rejoined Amanda outside Steve's room, still reeling from the shock of the phone call he had just taken. "Jesse… he's in a bad way."

"That was him? Where is he? What did he say?"

"He's asked me to take over Mark's care. He sounded…" He shook his head at the memory. "I don't know… Not good."

"What do you mean 'not good'?" There was a note of hysteria in Amanda's voice that she couldn't prevent. Things were rapidly falling apart and she had no idea as to how to hold them together.

"He was upset, shaken," Kirk tried to explain. "And he wouldn't tell me where he was. I don't know for sure, but I got the impression that he won't be coming back."

"What?"

"He told me to apologise to Mark for him." The doctor sighed, heavily. "When I tried to talk to him, he hung up." He glanced at his watch, not being intentionally rude, but knowing that he had to start setting things in motion. It wouldn't be too long before Mark was due to come around. "Amanda…"

"It's okay, Kirk, I understand." She glanced down the corridor to the nearest phone. "I know you have work to do." She returned her gaze to where Steve still lay sleeping.

"Amanda." Kirk caught hold of her arm, seeing how torn she was and not wanting to add to her burden – but having no choice. "I think you should be there when Mark regains consciousness." He saw the way that her eyes filled with tears and hated himself for doing that to her. The least he could do was explain: "He's going to need his friends, Amanda. He's going to need them more than he's ever needed them in his life before. Please, I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."

Amanda nodded, somewhat distractedly, her eyes once again drawn to the phone on the wall. Mark wasn't the only one who needed her.

"What about Steve?" she asked, wondering how she could possibly spread herself so thin, so as to be able to help them all.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for him to be there. Not the first time." Kirk looked in through the window. "Actually, I'm hoping that he'll still be asleep because – if he isn't – then I don't think we'll be able to stop him."

"He should be out for at least a couple more hours," Amanda answered, softly. "How long until… until you think you'll need me?"

"An hour. Maybe two."

"It's going to be close." Though her voice was still gentle, inwardly Amanda was raging at the injustice of it all. It wasn't fair that now, on top of everything else, the father and son might awaken at the same time.

"I can have a nurse sit with him," Kirk put in, gesturing towards Steve's room. "She can page you the moment that he stirs."

"Thanks, Kirk," she replied, with weariness in her tone. But there was no time to rest; no time to sit down and take stock of events. Before she could even contemplate doing that, she had a phone call to make.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Thank you for the reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Four.

Jesse's cellphone was switched off. An infuriating, automated voice told Amanda that moments after she had dialled the familiar number. She hung up without leaving a message and instead punched in the number to Jesse's apartment. She had no idea if he had even gone home, but she didn't know where else to try.

That phone rang three times and then Jesse's familiar voice filled her ear. Amanda closed her eyes as she realised that she was, once again, listening to a machine. Her friend's voice sounded happy and relaxed as he told her to leave a message after the tone.

The phone beeped loudly in her ear and, though she didn't even know if Jesse was there to hear her, she couldn't give up without trying.

"Jesse, if you're there, pick up the phone." She paused, giving him the time to do just that, but nothing happened. "Jess, please. Sweetheart, I just want to talk to you. Jesse? Jesse, pick up the phone…" She was unable to prevent a sob from escaping as she pictured her friend's distress. He might have been sitting in his apartment, lost to his despair, unable to bring himself to talk to her. And, even if he was not home, she had to find some way to reach him. "Jesse, honey, I know you might not want to talk right now, but… Call me, Jess. Please…" She paused again and was, again, greeted by only silence. "I'm worried about you, Jesse. If you could just give me a call, please, just to let me know that you're alright."

Across town, Jesse regarded the answer phone sadly. He heard Amanda's desperate plea – heard the pain in her voice – and he wanted nothing more than to take that pain away. But he couldn't. He didn't know how.

"I'm sorry, Amanda," he murmured. He held an overnight bag in one hand and used the other to open his front door. "I'm not alright. I'm not sure that I ever will be."

He spared one last look towards the phone and then closed the door behind him.

* * *

Amanda sank into a chair that stood beside the phone. She wondered if she had enough time to drive to Jesse's apartment, to try and find him, before another of her friends needed her.

Kirk had told her that she had maybe two hours and she knew it would be about that long before Steve awoke.

That gave her more than enough time to get to Jesse's, to see if he was there and just not answering the phone. She had no choice but to stop the thought right there. Even if she could find him, then she didn't have the time to make him listen. How was she was supposed to make him understand that Steve's words were born only of grief – that nothing he had done was wrong; that his friends still loved and needed him?

Jesse, she knew, was in a world of hurt; was blaming himself for everything that had transpired. It was going to take time to make him let go of his guilt and start thinking like a doctor again – a doctor who had used the only option available to him to save a man's life.

And, given Kirk's words of just a few moments previously, she knew that she could not spare such time.

An hour, maybe two.

Then she would have to walk into a room and tell the man whom she loved as a father that his life had been changed forever.

An hour, maybe two.

She closed her eyes. All the time in the world would not have been enough to prepare herself for that duty. And it was a duty that fell to her alone. Even had he not been sedated, Steve was in no state, emotionally, to be there. And Jesse was gone. She couldn't allow herself to dwell on that thought – not yet, not until she could do something about it. And, she silently vowed, she would. She would find him and talk to him and draw him back to where he belonged.

But first, she had to worry about Mark. She would not let him face such devastating news without at least one member of his extended family at his side and she was the only one who could do it. She shuddered involuntarily.

An hour, maybe two.

How was she ever supposed to find the right words?

* * *

Jesse sat in his car with the engine idling and his eyes staring into the distance. He'd left his apartment with absolutely no idea as to where he was going, or what he was going to do when he got there. He didn't think too hard about it, he didn't want to dwell on the future.

A stray thought slipped into his mind: _I'll just keep going north until I run out of land._ It was a thought from his childhood; from right after his parents' divorce – which had left him feeling lonely and unloved and somehow responsible.

He had carried the weight of that responsibility for more years than he cared to remember. It wasn't until his father had finally revealed what he did for a living – and hence his real reasons for leaving the family home – that he was absolved of his irrational guilt.

He had never carried through with that thought – and, when he had finally left home, he had headed to LA – but it stayed with him throughout his difficult childhood and he'd often caught himself staring northwards, wondering what it would be like to just keep going until there was nowhere left for him to go.

Geography had never been his favourite subject, but even he knew that he'd wind up in Alaska. Cold, bleak, uninviting Alaska. It seemed fitting, somehow.

North. It was as good a direction as any. Jesse put his car in gear and pulled away from the sidewalk.

* * *

Time ceased to have any meaning for Amanda. She continued to sit in the chair by the telephone, with her head buried in her hands. She refused to look up, lest she caught a glimpse of her watch or the clock on the wall. Then she would know how long she still had to wait.

By not knowing how much time had passed, she could pretend that it had been mere seconds – that, at any moment, Kirk would not be calling for her to fulfil the duty she was dreading with all of her heart.

When she felt a hand drop onto her shoulder and heard a voice softly saying her name, she knew that it had not been mere seconds.

It had been an hour – maybe two.

She looked up, surprised to feel wetness on her cheeks as her hands fell away from her face. She hadn't even realised that she'd been crying.

"Amanda…" Kirk's eyes were filled with sympathy and almost caused a fresh onslaught of tears. But she knew why he was there – and also knew that she couldn't afford the time it would take to shed them.

She sighed, with infinite sadness: "I've never had to do anything like this in my life before," she confessed in a small voice. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to say."

"I can explain the medical details to him," Kirk offered, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You just need to be there for him – as a friend… Amanda, everyone knows that you're almost a daughter to him."

"Then why am I so scared?" Amanda's voice cracked as she tried to envisage walking into the room where Mark lay. "Why do I feel like I can't do this? I love Mark – I really do." The tears that she'd fought so hard to contain spilled past her defences. "But I'm scared, Kirk."

"So am I, Amanda." The doctor responded, earnestly. "But I'm not asking you to do anything other than be there for him. Just be his friend."

* * *

Something had changed. There was something different about the position he was lying in and the agony that had constantly been with him had… not disappeared exactly, but it was definitely numbed and distant.

Mark was still reluctant to open his eyes. He had awoken before, more than once, each time hoping and praying that his ordeal would be over – that he would no longer be trapped – only to have those hopes and prayers cruelly dashed.

More awareness returned and he realised that there was comfort around him. He was lying on something soft and warm. And the smells…

It had taken him a long time to get used to the smells: the acrid, noxious burning that he could taste in the back of his throat. And the unmistakable, nauseating stench of blood. Those were gone and had been replaced by something much more familiar.

Mark wondered if he was dreaming. He had dreamt before – his own mind tormenting him with the belief that he had been rescued, that he was safe. But this dream was different. In this dream there were voices.

"Mark? Mark, if you can hear me…" A muffled sob followed and a slight frown furrowed his brow. The voice continued: "That's it. Come back to us, Mark."

_Amanda?_ A soft hand touched his forehead; another took his right hand in a gentle grip and he knew that he was not dreaming. _Amanda! _

He had thought that he was going to die – trapped in the wreckage of his own car. He had never thought he'd hear her sweet voice again. Unbidden, a single tear seeped out from behind his still closed eyelids.

"Mark, I know you can hear me." Her voice wasn't sweet – it was strained and tearful – but it was still beautiful to him. "Can you open your eyes, honey? Please, Mark. Look at me."

He couldn't deny her. He had never been able to deny her. She sounded so sad; he would have done anything to take that pain out of her voice. And it was such a little thing she had asked of him.

* * *

Amanda's heart constricted in her chest as Mark's eyelids fluttered. Moments later she was staring into bleary blue eyes that held none of the sharpness she was accustomed to seeing there.

"Hey." She found a smile from somewhere and the effort was rewarded when the corners of Mark's mouth turned slightly upwards. "Welcome back."

"Amanda…" His voice was weary, the words an obvious struggle. "I dreamed about this… Then I woke up… Trapped…"

"It's no dream, Mark." Fresh tears filled her eyes. No, it wasn't a dream, but he had awoken straight into a nightmare. "You're really here, Mark. You're safe now." She spooned some ice chips into his mouth, trying to ease the strain of talking and he smiled faintly in gratitude.

"Amanda?" His eyes flickered away from her, beyond her and around the room, before finally settling back on her face. "Steve?"

She shouldn't have been surprised by the query. Of course he would notice his son's absence. Their relationship was stronger than anything she had ever seen a father and son share before. Steve should have been at his bedside; it was where he belonged.

"Amanda…" This time, her name emerged on a panicked gasp and his eyes suddenly filled with fear. "I… I don't remember… Was he… Was he in the car..? Is he..?"

"He's fine," she hurried to assure him, unsurprised by his disorientation – he had sustained a nasty head wound – but wishing that she'd prepared for it. "He wasn't in the car. He's… he's resting right now. It's been a shock for all of us."

"A shock?"

Mark looked up at her in confusion and the grace period was over. It was time to do what she had been brought there to do.

"Mark." She tightened her grip on his hand. "You were in a very bad accident and you were trapped." She bit her lip and forced herself not to look away. "I'm so sorry, Mark, but your arm…" She swallowed, blinking away tears. "Your arm was…"

"Destroyed…" Mark spoke on a sigh – and almost caused her heart to stop. But she felt no relief at being spared from having to impart the brutal truth. Mark sounded devastated: "I had prayed it was a nightmare… I came to and I saw it…" He closed his eyes and two tears trickled out to roll down his cheeks. "I prayed it was a nightmare."

"I'm so sorry, Mark." It was woefully inadequate, but it was all that she had.

"I can't…" Still the cerulean eyes remained closed. "I can't look… How bad..?"

"Doctor Sloan…" Kirk's voice saved her from having to answer. "I know how hard this must be…"

"Jesse?" Again panic filled Mark's voice and his eyes shot open. "Where's Jesse? Why isn't he here?"

"Jesse was here, Mark." It was Amanda who answered and her voice was surprisingly strong. If she could do nothing else that day, then she could at least spare Jesse from any more agony – and she was determined to do just that. "He was here when you needed him. I swear, Mark, Jesse was with you the whole time." She paused, wondering how to explain his absence. "He just… he can't be here right now."

Mark relaxed back onto the bed and his eyes, once again, closed.

"Doctor Sloan?" Though an established surgeon, Kirk still wasn't comfortable addressing the Head of Internal Medicine by his given name. "Are you in any pain?"

"I'm tired…" Mark murmured. His eyes cracked open and he glanced down towards his left side. "And my arm hurts."

* * *

"I think that the fact Doctor Sloan immediately experienced pain in the amputated limb was more a result of shock than anything else." Kirk glanced at the other people in the room a little awkwardly. "Of course, that's not my field of expertise."

"I would be inclined to agree with you." It was Leila Davis – a staff psychologist – who answered. "It's an extreme form of denial. It's as if Doctor Sloan's subconscious is telling him that if the arm hurts then it must still be there."

"But you also said that Doctor Sloan knew that he was going to lose his arm," Glynn Little – another psychologist – interrupted. "That he saw the damage when he regained consciousness at the crash site. That would give him plenty of time – consciously and subconsciously – to adapt. And PLP isn't always an emotional disorder."

Amanda listened helplessly to the conversation that she could take no part in. Of course she had heard of Phantom Limb Pain, but that was as far as her knowledge extended. She certainly couldn't contribute an opinion as to its cause.

She and Kirk had arranged this meeting after Mark had drifted back to sleep. The psychiatric staff had been on hand – alerted by Kirk before Mark had even awoken – and, for now, the meeting consisted of just the four of them. Others would be brought in at a later stage; various professionals adding their expertise as and when it was needed.

Amanda turned her attention back to the conversation, striving to understand as much as she possibly could and knowing what a big part she still had to play.

"If there were any complications during surgery…" Glynn was speaking again.

"There weren't," Kirk interrupted him, his voice low and intense. "I was there and Jesse was brilliant. Everything went without a hitch."

"But it was also Mark Sloan who he was operating on. He was under immense pressure and working in almost impossible circumstances. It's not a question of his ability or his skill, but there's always the possibility of complications." Glynn leant forwards. "I don't want to play the devil's advocate here, Kirk, but somebody has to. Somebody has to ask these questions."

"I understand that, but I'm telling you nothing went wrong."

"Kirk, I appreciate that you were there – but you weren't the operating surgeon. Jesse was – and we really need to speak to him. Where is he anyway? He really should be here. When will he be back?"

"I don't know," Kirk answered, automatically glancing towards Amanda. Her eyes were wide and still tearful and she shook her head minutely at his silent question – the same one that Glynn had just asked. "I'll be taking care of Doctor Sloan from now on."

"Did Doctor Sloan say anything else?" Leila was quick to get the conversation back on track. Jesse's absence was a problem – but only a minor one. They had other priorities. "Did it seem as though..?"

The rest of what she'd been going to say faded out of Amanda's consciousness as her pager sounded. Brief, futile hope flared in her at the thought that Jesse might have got her message and called her back. Then she read the display and her heart sank. The page was from the nurses' station on the second floor – and there was only one reason that they would be contacting her. Steve was beginning to come around.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Thank you for the reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Five.

She walked through the hospital corridors in a numb – almost detached – state. Kirk had offered to go with her, but she'd turned him down. He needed to be concentrating on Mark; his recovery was going to take a lot of time and effort and he didn't need any further distractions. He certainly didn't need the wrath of Steve Sloan – and she knew that he would be furious.

No, she had been solely responsible for drugging him. And she, alone, would face the consequences.

Her timing was impeccable. Even as she approached Steve's bed, his eyelids flickered and he began to move restlessly. Squaring her shoulders both physically and mentally, she dismissed the nurse – just as the detective's eyes fluttered open.

"What...? How..?" He was clearly disorientated and Amanda held her silence, letting him remember things in his own time. She wasn't entirely sure that she could have spoken at that moment even if she'd had the words. Then Steve glanced down at his arm – at the needle prick still clearly visible – before looking up at her with accusing eyes. "You drugged me."

"It was just a mild sedative, Steve." She didn't even try and deny it – there was no point and it would only prolong the agony. "You were so upset and…"

"Damned right I was upset!" Steve surged upright and swung his legs off the bed. "My dad had just… my dad…" He rubbed a shaky hand across his eyes as more of his memory returned. "God, my dad…"

"Steve…" Amanda reached out, intending to try and comfort him with a touch, but he jerked away and glared at her with eyes that glittered condemnation.

"My dad needed me and you drugged me," he snapped. "Amanda, how could you?"

Amanda suddenly realised that she was at the end of her tether – and the censure in his voice was the final straw. All of her devastation, fear, anger and pain rose to the surface and she no longer tried to fight them.

"Dammit, Steve, how couldn't I?" she demanded. "You had already attacked Jesse; you were ready to go barging into your father's room without considering what the shock might have done to him; you were only thinking of yourself – if you were thinking at all. We wanted to help you, Steve, but you wouldn't let us. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You drugged me!" He yelled the words into her face, but her own anger had grown so much that she didn't even flinch away.

"Yes, I did!" she retorted. "And you know something else? I'd do it again if I thought it was right! You were out of line and you didn't leave me with any choice."

"Amanda…" Unthinkingly, he grabbed hold of her arms – almost as though he was going to try and shake some sense into her. "My dad needed me. You should…"

"The last person he needed was you – in the state you were in." She hadn't intended to sound so harsh, but the words escaped before she could stop them. She saw agony flash across his features and futilely wished for her time over again so that she could say something – anything – other than what she had said. Anything other than those words that had sounded so condemning.

"I would never do anything to hurt him." His grip on her arms tightened. "Never."

"Not intentionally, Steve." She ignored the pain, focussed only on trying to get through to him. "I know that. But he's already asked me why Jesse isn't here – how would you have responded to that?"

"Jesse?" Steve seemed perplexed by the question. He frowned, scowled and then his frown deepened.

Amanda allowed herself the luxury of a brief moment of hope. Could it really be that simple? Could Steve have merely forgotten the appalling way he had treated his best friend? Though it wouldn't make things any easier for Jesse, it would at least spare the danger of another such confrontation. And it would mean that they could both be in the same room together without the need for a mediator. It might just be enough to get them talking – providing, of course, that Jesse returned.

Then the full import of her words struck home and Jesse – to Steve – was instantly forgotten.

"You mean he's awake?" Disbelief replaced the anger in his voice. "Why didn't you tell me?" He released her abruptly, his intentions clear. "I'm going to see him."

"Steve, it's not that simple." As soon as his hands fell away from her arms, she caught hold of his wrists. "You can't just go marching in there."

"What are you gonna do, Amanda? Stick another needle in me?"

The pathologist took a deep, calming breath. Yelling at Steve wasn't the way to get his cooperation. "Please, Steve. I don't want to keep you away from your dad – but you need to be calm and rational…"

"I am calm and rational!" His renewed flare of fury – so evident in his voice – made that statement patently ridiculous.

"I won't have you upsetting Mark – and that's what you'd do if you go to see him now, the mood that you're in. Please, just take a minute. Just take a minute…"

Her voice was pleading, but it was the depth of pain in her gentle brown eyes that finally got through to the detective. He slumped back against the bed.

"I'm sorry." He rubbed a shaking hand across his brow. "Oh my God… Dad… Amanda, how is he?"

"He was only awake very briefly, Steve." The pathologist took hold of his hands and, this time, he didn't flinch away. "He was… confused and still groggy but… He knows, Steve. He knows what happened to him."

* * *

Jesse looked down at the sandwich he was holding in his hands. Tuna mayo. It wasn't even one of his favourites, but that didn't matter. He couldn't even remember how he'd come to be in possession of the sandwich.

He looked up, blinking as he realised just how rapidly the light had changed – it was almost full dark. He had no idea how long he'd been driving – nor how long he had been sat parked outside a convenience store, staring dumbly at his sandwich.

His eyes were drawn to the front of the store. It was still open and he could see the proprietor behind the counter. A stray memory came back to him: of going into the store, of the man behind the counter being surly and uncommunicative. That had suited Jesse fine. He couldn't have made idle chatter if his life had depended on it.

His throat was tight and sore from his tears. His eyes were gritty and exhausted. And the hands that still held the sandwich trembled minutely as he fumbled with the packaging.

Hunger had forced him to the store. He hadn't eaten at all that day and he was starting to feel somewhat nauseous. He had to eat – even if he wasn't exactly sure he cared whether he lived or died – and a base instinct, one he was powerless to resist, had driven him to seek out food.

He also knew that he needed to rest. He looked at the clock on the dashboard, but the digital figures shifted and blurred even as he tried to focus on them. God, he needed to sleep – his body craved it. And yet, a part of him couldn't help but wonder how he could ever sleep again. How could he find the peace?

But he couldn't just keep going. He was a danger to himself and others driving in his current state. He had no choice but to stop for the night.

His eyes fell back to his hands and the empty wrapper that they now held. He had eaten the sandwich without even realising it; chewing without tasting; swallowing without thinking. His body had taken care of its own needs without his conscious knowledge – and now it had one further need.

Striving not to think – not to feel – Jesse leaned back against the headrest and allowed his eyes to drift shut.

* * *

Steve sat opposite Kirk Fitzpatrick and tried to shake the feeling that the entire situation was somehow wrong. His father had been badly hurt – had, in fact, almost died – and yet it was some stranger who was explaining his progress and his prognosis. It wasn't right. It shouldn't have been so impersonal. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Lieutenant Sloan." There was mild exasperation in the doctor's tone. "Are you listening to me? It's important that you understand what you can and can't do or say. It's vital to your father's wellbeing."

_His wellbeing,_ Steve thought bitterly. _He's only got one arm – what's that going to do for his wellbeing?_

"You have to let go of this anger before you go in to see him," Kirk continued, when it became obvious that no answer would be forthcoming.. "I can't risk you upsetting him. He has enough to deal with…"

"I know what he has to deal with," Steve snapped in response. "Your colleague, Doctor Travis, explained that to me perfectly clearly. He's lost an arm!"

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Kirk pinched the bridge of his nose – the contempt in Steve's voice when he'd mentioned Jesse's name hadn't gone unnoticed. "Without Doctor Travis, your father would have died."

"Dammit, you're bound to say that!" Steve's enforced rest had done little to improve his rationale. "You doctors stick together and the last thing you want is a malpractice suit!"

Amanda had heard enough. She was on the verge of leaping to her feet and telling the detective a few home truths – but Kirk beat her to it.

"Alright, that's enough." The surgeon's voice was calm, but his anger was still apparent in his expression. "I know you said you wanted this in plain English – and that you didn't do 'doctor speak' very well – so let me spell it out for you. Your father was involved in a very bad accident. He sustained serious injuries to his head and chest. His heart stopped beating; albeit only briefly. His arm was practically severed in the accident and, after that, he was trapped for close on two hours. He couldn't treat himself; he couldn't stop the blood loss. And he bled for two solid hours. Do you have any idea what that does to the tissue? Nothing below his elbow was more than dead flesh by the time he arrived here. And tissue damage spreads; it destroys cells; it leads to gangrene. The damage might have spread a whole lot further than his arm – and that would have undoubtedly killed him. The shock alone of what he was going through _should_ have killed him! Jesse Travis did an incredible job just in keeping him alive; never mind salvaging as much of the arm as he did. If he hadn't been there, then I'd have amputated at the shoulder. And if we had tried to reattach the limb, I guarantee you, we would be sitting here discussing your father's funeral!"

The fact that neither of them were sitting down any more was a moot point. Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Kirk still hadn't finished.

"I'm going to let you see your father," he said, taking a deep breath, feeling himself shaking from the aftermath of his outburst. "But you have to promise me that you will keep calm and will do nothing that's likely to agitate him. He is still very ill and needs quiet and rest. If you can't do that – if I see is blood pressure or heart rate rise even minutely – then I will have you removed."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, striving to keep a hold on his temper. There was no justice in what had happened to his father and he was having a hard time coming to terms with it. Why should this happen to someone who had helped so many – who had saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives? His father was a good man and it simply wasn't fair that this should be happening to him. A permanent disability – the loss of a limb – was something he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. How was he supposed to accept – and help his dad accept – such a massive injustice?

"And please remember, Lieutenant." Kirk was speaking again and he forced himself to focus on what he was saying. "I do have the authority to keep you away from your father and, if your behaviour is in any way detrimental to his recovery, then that's exactly what I'll do."

* * *

Amanda couldn't remember ever seeing Steve so completely and utterly lost for words – and she mentally applauded Kirk for finding some way to make him listen. Even though he may have seemed harsh and brutal, it was what her friend had needed. Reasoning had had no effect on him.

The doctor had left them alone after his tirade – silently trusting Amanda to take Steve up to see his dad only when she thought that he was ready. She appreciated the gesture. She needed the time alone with Steve.

But the silence was beginning to drag and she was reluctant to break it. Steve seemed lost in thought, but he was calmer than he had been since the moment that his father was rushed into the ER – apart from when he had been unconscious.

Then he looked up at her and his eyes bored into her as though they were seeking to penetrate her very soul.

"Is it true, Amanda?" he asked, his unblinking stare not faltering for a second. "Would he have died? Really?"

"Yes, Steve," She returned his gaze without flinching. "He would."

"So Travis…" He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Jesse… He saved his life?"

"Yes." She didn't need to elaborate. The truth was evident in that one, simple word.

"And I…" _You crippled my father. You butchered him. You stay away from me and my father. Where the hell were you, Travis?_ The brutal memories slammed into his brain, one after the other and he raised a shaking hand to his brow. "God… Amanda…" He looked up, stricken – then shook his head, helplessly. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Though she was upset and angry at the way he had treated Jesse, Amanda also knew that that had to wait. She had to put her fear for Jesse back on hold as she, once again, returned her thoughts to Mark. He was the one who she could help – at this moment in time – and he would need to see his son. He would need to see for himself that he was whole and healthy. It was, she knew, essential to his continued recovery. She crossed to where Steve stood and slipped one arm around his waist.

"Now," she told him, summoning a smile. "We're going to go up and see Mark. And you are going to do everything that Kirk said – and then we're going to start making him well again."

* * *

A short time later, they stood outside Mark's room. Kirk was already in there and they could both see him talking quietly to the older man.

"It should be Jesse in there," Steve murmured. "I can't believe I…"

"Steve, you really need to be focussing on your father right now." Though it hurt Amanda to say the words – more than anything she wanted to heal the rift between the two friends – but Mark had to come first. "This is going to be very upsetting for both of you, without you taking any extra problems in there with you."

"God…" He bit his lip and looked away. "I don't… Amanda, I'm not sure I can do this…"

_I did it. I had to. Nobody gave me any choice – and there was nobody there to help me,_ she silently raged. _Stop being so damned selfish, Steve. Try thinking about somebody other than yourself for once._

But she kept the bitter tirade inside – there had been too much anger that day already. Taking a deep, calming breath she laid a comforting hand on his arm.

"Yes you can," she told him, her steady voice betraying none of her rampaging emotions. "Just remember what Kirk said. Be strong for him and be there for him – that's all any of us can do."

Steve's eyes had drifted towards the door and his responding nod was more than a little distracted.

"Are you ready to go in?" Though she got no answer from the detective, she used the hand that still lay on his arm to guide him gently forwards.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Continued thanks for the reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Six.

"Steve." Mark's eyes sought out his son's the moment the door opened. Then they locked and held. "I'm so sorry…"

"Sorry?" Everything – everyone – else was forgotten as Steve rushed to his father's bedside, "Why are you sorry? You've no reason to be sorry. Dad…"

"The rain… the traffic… I was thinking… I was thinking about the Board meeting." Mark sounded tired – old. "I should've seen…"

"Dad, it wasn't your fault." Instinct alone caused him to say those words. He'd had no report from the accident investigators. He still didn't know what had caused the crash – though he would have a hard time believing that it was Mark Sloan.

"I didn't know where you were." Residual fear and the effects of the anaesthetic leant desperation to Mark's tone. Tears spilled from his eyes. "I didn't know if you were with me… Steve… I thought I'd killed you…"

"No, I'm here." Steve scooped Mark's hand into his own. "I'm here and I'm fine. See?"

"Thank God…" Mark's voice trailed off and his eyes closed, causing fresh panic to flare in Steve's chest.

"It's alright." Kirk's voice – that had so lectured him before – was a calming reassurance. "Sleep is the best thing for him."

"But he thinks…"

"Sshh." Amanda admonished him gently. Steve's expostulation had sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden hush. "Let him sleep."

Steve's reaction was to cross back to the door and yank it open. Once back out in the corridor he waited for the others to join him – Kirk closing the door softly behind him – before he continued.

"How can he think it was his fault?" he raged – even though he knew that he was asking the question of entirely the wrong people. "What the hell happened?"

"Your father has just undergone major surgery," Kirk answered, his tone still calm. "He's weak, he's groggy and he's confused. It's to be expected."

"But…" His dad's broken apology had left him reeling.

"Steve, we don't know any more than you do," Amanda reminded him gently. "If you need to know what happened, call the precinct. Find out what the accident investigators have come up with. It wasn't only Mark's car that was involved. Some of the other victims weren't so lucky. Eight people were killed. Only your father and two other people survived."

When he'd been in with Mark he'd tried to avoid looking at the amputation site – but it had been impossible. He'd kept noticing it out of the corner of his eye and the image had stayed with him.

"Lucky…" he muttered dourly.

Then it hit him. Amanda's words and the tears in her eyes finally forced him to start accepting the bitter truth. His father may have been maimed, but this was – in all truth – a very close and very real brush with death. Only three people had walked away from a crash involving close to a dozen. It was something of a miracle.

A miracle and the skill and dedication of the doctors at Community General – or rather, one doctor in particular.

He staggered away from Amanda and Kirk, seeking the support of the nearest wall and knowing that he was in danger of collapse if he didn't find something to lean on. The bitter words he'd spouted at Jesse returned anew to haunt him. The anger, the violence – the way he'd shook him and come frighteningly close to hitting him. He had treated the young man appallingly – and all that after he had saved his father's life.

Steve closed his eyes – oblivious to the concerned glance exchanged by the two doctors. He could barely think straight and now a massive headache was adding to his woes. There was too much to do and no time to do it in. He wanted to find Jesse and apologise for his unforgivable behaviour; he wanted to get in touch with his colleagues and find out what had caused that mornings accident; he wanted to return to his father's side and be there ready for when he woke up again.

But he couldn't do all three. His haunted eyes opened when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. Amanda was looking up at him with open concern.

"Steve?" she queried, more than a little fearfully.

"Amanda, will you do something for me?" He couldn't do all three – but he had friends who could help him. "Will you find Jesse and tell him..?"

"No." Amanda hadn't intended to sound harsh, but he had asked the one thing that she was not prepared to do. "No – anything you want to say to Jesse, you'll have to tell him yourself. If you can find him."

"If..?" His confused eyes scoured her face. "What do you mean 'if'? He's my dad's doctor. He's gotta be around here somewhere."

"He _was_ your dad's doctor," she corrected him, grimly. "He handed over Mark's care to Kirk right after you'd made it so clear that you didn't want him treating your father."

"But… but I didn't mean…"

"Do you remember what you said, Steve?" She was unable to keep the coldness out of her voice. Jesse's utter devastation continued to haunt her – and it tore at her heart that she had been helpless to do anything about it. "Do you remember what you did?"

"I was angry – scared." Steve did remember those events, but he didn't want to dwell on the memories. "He'll know that."

"He doesn't, Steve." Amanda forced the truth home to him. "He had just come out of surgery; had just operated on his dear friend – on the man who he's confessed he wished was his father – and then his _best_ friend… His best friend…" She swallowed hard, clamping down on her tears. "You know Jesse – probably better than I do – how do you think he's going to react to what you did?"

Steve rubbed one hand across his mouth, feeling sudden panic surge. Jesse was a sensitive soul – it would have hurt him immensely to do what he had been forced to do to Mark. And then to immediately face such censure would have only exacerbated the guilt that he was, surely, already feeling.

"But I…" He saw the accusation in her eyes and immediately went on the defensive. "He should have been here, Amanda. You said so yourself."

"Stop it, Steve! Stop it!" The words were almost a scream, as Amanda finally gave vent to her own raging emotions. "Don't you try and turn this around. Jesse was exhausted. He worked a twenty hour shift yesterday. Before that he barely had eight hours off following a sixteen hour shift. You begrudge him sleeping, Steve?"

"But if he had been here…" It wasn't meant to be accusatory – but the words had escaped before he could stop them.

"Shut up!" Remembering utter agony in soft blue eyes, Amanda lost control completely. "Just shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

It wasn't until strong hands grasped her wrists that Amanda realised she had been beating her fists against the detective's chest.

"Amanda? Amanda!" His voice almost reached her, but she was crying too hard for it to get through. "Doctor Fitzpatrick? Help me!"

The corridor had been empty, but at Steve's desperate cry, a door – not the door to Mark's room – was wrenched open and suddenly Kirk Fitzpatrick was there. Steve absently noted that the room he'd exited had been empty. He'd probably just stepped in there to afford them some privacy.

Amanda had descended into hysteria. Her sobs were broken, wretched and devastated. Kirk dealt with them by simply drawing her into his arms and cradling her head against his chest.

"Sshh… It's okay…" He soothed, sounding very much like he was comforting a frightened child. "It's alright… Sshh…"

Steve looked helplessly on – once again unable to shake the feeling that everything was wrong. Amanda was upset and yet it was some stranger who comforted her – and not one of their extended family; of their tight-knit little group that had been through so much together.

Shaking his head, he spared one last look towards Kirk – fully intending to walk away. Then Kirk glanced up and their eyes met. The doctor gave the slightest shake of his head – indicating that Steve should stay. The detective didn't question him. He had already made too many mistakes that day.

"She will need you, Steve," he murmured, keeping his voice calm even as Amanda sobbed in his arms. "Sooner or later, she will need you. Be here for her."

* * *

Amanda had collapsed emotionally and physically, but the two men managed to manoeuvre her into a room and the vacant bed it contained. Steve watched silently as Kirk prepared an injection and emptied it into her unresisting arm.

"What are you doing?" he wondered.

"Making sure that she gets the rest she needs," Kirk told him. "This has been hard on her, too, you know."

"How can you think that she'll need me?" Steve asked, staring morbidly down at her – seeing the way that her tears still flowed until the sedative took effect. "I did that to her."

"You're family," Kirk responded, almost without thought. "I don't like to interfere, but…"

Steve startled both himself and Kirk by snorting sudden laughter.

"When my dad says that," he explained. "It usually means that he's about to go ahead and interfere anyway." He noted the blush that coloured the doctor's cheeks at being obliquely compared to Mark Sloan. It reminded him of Jesse – and any hint of levity was lost. "Just say what's on your mind."

"Steve, it's not only Mark who's going to need the help and support of his friends," the doctor told him, instantly picking up on the – once again – sombre mood. "You and Amanda will need each other – as much as Mark is going to need you both."

Steve brooded silently for a moment. There had always been four of them: he and his father, Amanda and Jesse. That was how it always had been. Whenever there was a crisis _four_ of them pulled together.

"Where's Jesse?" he asked – refusing to beat around the bush. Though he had been the one to hurt his friend, he wanted to start putting it right.

"I don't know." Kirk kept his eyes averted, but there was quiet fury in his tone. "I know what you said to him – and you were wrong."

"I know that now!" Steve retorted, feeling guilt again churning in his gut. "I want to be able to tell him that!"

"Well, I'm afraid it won't be possible." Finally, Kirk looked up at him and his eyes betrayed exactly what he thought of the detective at that moment. "Because, since your outburst, he hasn't been seen."

* * *

A sharp knocking on the driver's side window jerked Jesse awake almost as soon as his eyes had closed. He blinked in startled confusion – taking time to get his bearings – then he focussed on the unfriendly face of the store's proprietor, who he had encountered a short while back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The man's voice carried through the glass. "Does this look like a motel? You can't sleep here."

Jesse just looked at him, helplessly. His mind was still foggy and he couldn't even begin to formulate an answer.

"This parking lot is for customers only, pal," the man continued to rant. "So, unless you're going to get out and buy something – beat it!"

There was no point in arguing and Jesse didn't even try. The trouble was that he was still well and truly shattered. He wondered if he could stay focussed enough to drive safely to a place where he could spend the night.

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to scrub away his exhaustion and reached a trembling hand towards the ignition. Then another, gentler, knock caught his attention. At a gesture from the storekeeper, he wound his window down a fraction.

"Listen, buddy." The tone was only marginally more friendly, but at least he wasn't yelling any more. "There's a motel about a mile and a half that way," he said, pointing east. "It ain't fancy, but it's cheap. And it's got plenty of beds."

"Thanks," Jesse murmured, his eyes following the pointing finger. He finally got the car started and pulled away.

"And it sure looks like you could use one of those," the proprietor mumbled, watching his diminishing tail lights.

* * *

"He can't just have disappeared," Steve snapped, reacting to the other man's tone.

"I wouldn't count on it." Kirk's voice remained grim – bordering on accusatory. "I spoke to him. I know…"

"If you spoke to him then why the hell didn't you stop him?"

Amanda stirred restlessly at Steve's sudden outburst and Kirk grabbed hold of Steve's arm. Taking advantage of the detective's shock – Kirk himself was of a similar build to Jesse, only taller – he dragged him into the corridor.

"I couldn't stop him," he hissed, when they finally had some semblance of privacy. "Do you think I didn't try? He was destroyed, Lieutenant – totally devastated. What does it tell you about his frame of mind that he would walk away from taking care of your father?"

Steve froze as those words sank in. He had told Jesse – in no uncertain terms – that he didn't want him taking care of Mark. But when had Jesse ever done as he was told? Though that thought should have prompted some light-hearted memories, it only sent a shiver of fear running down his spine.

Jesse was dedicated and a consummate professional. He lived by the oath that he had sworn to uphold. He took his every responsibility very, very seriously. And yet he had handed over Mark's care to someone else.

Sudden moisture flooded Steve's mouth and he felt as though he was about to be sick as the implications of that sank in. He dragged his cellphone from his pocket.

"Amanda already tried that," Kirk told him, still with a hint of iciness in his voice. "He didn't answer."

"Well now I'm trying." Steve had had enough of anger for one day, but fear made his tone sharp. He tried the same two numbers that Amanda had – but he couldn't bring himself to leave a message on the answer phone. What he needed to say to Jesse had to be said face to face but, predictably, he got no response.

"I'm sorry," Steve said, shoving his phone back into his pocket and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "I shouldn't be taking this out on you."

Kirk almost retorted that he shouldn't have taken it out on Jesse either – but then he saw the self-recrimination now enshrouding the other man, haunting his features – and realised that he was punishing himself enough. He still wasn't sure whether Steve deserved his sympathy, but he offered it anyway.

"Your dad won't wake up for quite some time," he said, every trace of anger gone from his tone. "Amanda won't either. Why don't you get some rest?"

"I have rested." Steve's protest was short-lived as Kirk raised one dubious eyebrow and he was forced to concede: "Okay, so maybe not by choice. But how am I supposed to sleep? Am I just supposed to ignore this and carry on as though nothing's happened?"

"I'm not suggesting that. I said 'rest' not 'sleep'. There is a difference," the young doctor corrected him wryly. "Go somewhere quiet. Sit down and just relax for a while – at least, as much as you can. Someone will call you the moment that either of them wakes up – I promise. Come on, please. What else are you going to do?"

Steve regarded him for the longest of moments, an ugly suspicion nagging at the back of his mind.

"Doc," he said slowly. "I know you're pretty pissed with me right now and, hell, I can't blame you. But, if you knew where Jesse was – you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know where he is, Steve," Kirk answered, levelling him with an impassive stare. "So I don't even have to ask myself that question."

* * *

Jesse lay on his back on the bed in the cheap motel room staring sightlessly up at the off-white ceiling. It had been easier when he had been driving. In his car, he'd had to concentrate so that he didn't cause an accident. Now though, he had no distraction; nothing to take his mind off the events of the day.

His jacket was next to him and he'd kicked off his shoes, but he'd made no further effort to get undressed. In spite of his exhaustion, he knew that sleep would be a long time coming.

Voices echoed in his head, vying for attention when he really didn't want to hear any of them. He could hear Steve, Amanda, Kirk and even himself as he tried to explain to his friends what he had done – tried to defend his actions.

Closing his eyes didn't make the voices go away – and nor could it rid his mind of the images that continually haunted him.

_His hands steady and not even holding the faintest hint of a tremor, he made the first incision. His mind was surprisingly clear. Monitor the haematocrit and haemoglobin levels; isolate the brachial artery. It all went smoothly and the surgical team worked flawlessly in impossible conditions. Transect the median nerve and allow it to retract back into the wound. Do the same with the ulnar and radial nerves. Try hard not to think about just who it was that he was working on. Concentrate on the procedures – not the patient. Draw the posterior skin flap towards the anterior. Close and suture._

_And then Mark's eyes suddenly opened. Jesse gasped, taking a startled step back only to find that he had nowhere to go. Mark sat up and he speared the young doctor with an accusatory stare. His arm, bereft of bandages, hung grotesquely at his side._

"_You crippled me." Mark's tone was as condemning as his eyes. "You butchered me."_

Jesse jerked upright, woken by his own startled cry. The room was in darkness and it was late into the night. He couldn't even remember the moment that he'd fallen asleep – the memory had merged seamlessly into his nightmare.

He snapped on the bedside lamp, but its feeble pool of light did little to illuminate the dingy room. It didn't matter. There was no light bright enough to penetrate the darkness in his soul.

He rubbed one hand over his sweat soaked face, feeling his exhaustion still weighing on him, trying to drag him back down. But now he feared sleep. Though he craved oblivion, he didn't dare close his eyes. To suffer that nightmare again – to see such accusation, almost bordering on hatred, in his mentor's eyes; to hear it in his voice – would surely drive him insane.

But there was no escape for him even awake. The nightmare refused to flee and it was impossible not to think about what had happened. Now it was not just the voices of his friends and colleagues that plagued him. Now Mark's had joined in with them – and his was the loudest of all.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Seven.

Steve paced the confines of the doctors' lounge for the second time that day. Again he was waiting – but this time it was for news of a different kind. He had tried to do what Kirk suggested – had tried to unwind even a fraction – but it had proved to be impossible.

There were too many uncertainties hanging over him. His dad was still gravely ill and he was not so complacent as to discount the possibility of complications following his surgery.

Then there was Jesse. He'd asked around and, though some staff recalled seeing him heading to the parking garage, nobody had seen or heard from him in hours.

There were also the words that Mark had said during his brief return to consciousness – the fact that he seemed to feel somehow responsible for the accident. That, at least, Steve could do something about. And so he held his cellphone pressed to his ear as he paced.

"Hello? Is that Doug Keller?" he said, as he was finally put through to the relevant department – to somebody who could actually give him some answers. "Yeah, Doug, it's Steve Sloan." He knew the other man, having worked with him in the past. "Oh, you heard, huh?" He shouldn't have been surprised that his colleague knew about Mark's involvement in the accident – his father was liked and respected throughout the LAPD.

Then Doug asked the inevitable question and Steve's throat closed up. He couldn't answer because he wasn't entirely sure what to say. How was he? He couldn't simply reply that he was okay. Mark was far from okay and wouldn't be okay for the rest of his life. But he was alive and that was something to be thankful for. The families of eight people were in mourning that night.

"Yeah, I'm still here." Steve rubbed at his eyes as he answered Doug's suddenly concerned enquiry. He was tired, he belatedly realised – and he had just drifted off completely, halfway through a conversation. "No, it's okay. Dad was pretty badly hurt, but he… he came through surgery." He couldn't add any more. Fresh tears threatened and he refused to let them fall. "Listen Doug, I need to know what happened." Pushing personal feelings aside, he switched into investigating mode. "What caused the accident? Have you found out yet?"

Steve subsided into silence and he concentrated on every word that Doug said to him. He had to resist the urge to hurry him, to get him to skip the details, to simply ask him whether his father was to blame. He didn't know how he'd be able to handle it if that did turn out to be the case.

But he did know, without a shadow of a doubt, that his father would never be able to live with it. Not when eight bodies were lying in the morgue.

* * *

Steve hung up his phone and closed his eyes. A sigh that he hadn't even been aware he was suppressing escaped his lips. His dad wasn't to blame. He hadn't been driving too fast and he had done everything he could to avoid the accident. It had just been impossible.

But, while he could say a quiet prayer that guilt would no longer be in danger of hampering Mark's recovery, the other things Doug had told him had left him somewhat stunned.

The weather was taking a large portion of the blame for the accident. High winds and driving rain had made for treacherous conditions. The roads had been packed with rush hour traffic and one tanker driver had lost control. He had paid for that loss of control with his life.

From the way the events had been pieced together, it seemed that Mark had been in the lane alongside the tanker at precisely the wrong moment. It had ridden up the kerb, it had tilted and a strong gust of wind – which had been bordering on gale force – had tipped it over. Mark had tried to swerve, but there had been nowhere to go. The bulk of the tanker had crushed his BMW and left him trapped. From the way Doug had spoken, it was a miracle that he hadn't been killed instantly. The family of five in the MPV behind him hadn't been so lucky. Only an eighteen month old baby – now an orphan – had survived. She had been in a baby seat but the parents and two older children hadn't bothered with a seatbelt between them.

Steve silently wondered why people would never learn. The MPV had been fitted with seatbelts, they just hadn't bothered to put them on. It shocked him that anyone would gamble with their children's lives in such a way. But they had paid the ultimate price.

There were also the idiots who just couldn't slow down – no matter how dangerous the conditions. Two more cars had been unable to stop in time when the accident occurred. They had accounted for two more of the fatalities. The final victim had been a pedestrian. A car swerving to avoid the carnage had hit her head on.

Shaking his head, Steve poured himself a coffee. It wouldn't help him to relax, but he needed the stimulant. The night was dragging on, but he was not prepared to sleep – not until Mark had awoken again and he was able to absolve him of any responsibility he might have felt for the accident.

* * *

Suddenly sensing that he was not alone, Steve glanced sharply towards the door. Kirk stood there, leaning on the frame, watching him. He felt his heart literally skip a beat.

"What? Is it my dad?" His voice was tight with barely suppressed panic. "Is something wrong?"

"Everything's fine," Kirk assured him, stepping into the room. "I came for a cup of coffee. Would you mind some company?"

"It wasn't my dad's fault," Steve said, by way of reply. He still held his phone clutched in his hand. "It wasn't his fault."

"That's good news." The doctor poured himself a coffee, questioning with his eyes whether Steve wanted a refill. When the detective gestured with his half-full mug, he replaced the pot.

"You, uh… you know what happened?" Steve's stomach still churned when he thought about those who had died. "That family?"

"I was on duty," Kirk reminded him, sadly. "The eldest child – the boy – he was still alive, barely. I couldn't save him."

Again, Steve was reminded of Jesse by the quiet pain that had filled Kirk's voice and a fresh wave of guilt flooded through him.

"God." He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How am I going to tell him?"

"It's good news, Steve." Kirk thought that he was still referring to the cause of the accident and his puzzlement was apparent in his tone. "Or as good as it can be. It wasn't his fault."

"I meant about Jesse." Steve instantly picked up on the confusion and sought to clarify it. "He's the best damned doctor you have in this hospital – not to mention him being my dad's friend." He paused, mentally reviewing what he'd just said: "No offence."

"None taken." The young doctor smile in response. "Jesse is our best doctor. I know that if I was hurt, then I'd want him taking care of me." The smile swiftly faded. "You're right, though – he mentioned Jesse to Amanda when he first woke up, but he was only conscious for a few seconds. But sooner or later, he will start wondering where he is."

"And I don't think there's anybody in this hospital who can answer that question," Steve reflected, bitterly. Sudden resolve hardened his expression and he looked down at his cellphone. "If you'll excuse me, I have a couple of calls to make."

* * *

Steve had been about to hit the speed dial button on his phone – but then the lounge door burst open and his partner Cheryl Banks rushed into the room, negating the need for him to call her.

"Steve, I got here as soon as I could." She was breathless and her horror over what had happened was evident on her face. "But that storm… It seems like the whole of LA just went crazy… You wouldn't believe how many reported homicides we've had."

"If that's your way of telling me that I'm needed back at work, then forget it," Steve snapped, misinterpreting her entirely. "I'm taking some time off."

"Steve…"

There was a warning in both her eyes and her tone – and he suddenly realised that it was not only she who had entered the lounge. Captain Newman stood by the door, with his arms folded across his chest and regarding him appraisingly. Steve didn't let that look faze him for one moment. "I mean it, Newman." His tone was still angry. "You give me some personal time, or you get my resignation."

"Contrary to popular belief, something does beat in here." The Captain tapped one finger against his chest. "I came down here to tell you to take as long as you need."

Steve took a deep, calming breath and nodded his thanks.

"How is he?" Cheryl asked. Though the news of Mark's accident had spread around the precinct like wildfire, the details had been sketchy.

"He's, um…" It should have been so easy – this was his partner he was talking to – but he couldn't force out the words. "He's sleeping now… He…"

"Steve." Kirk touched one hand to Steve's arm, seeing his struggle. "Would you like me to?"

Steve turned his face away. He was not about to cry in front of his Captain – and he nodded tightly in response to the doctor's offer. "Thanks," he managed to choke out.

Steve moved to stand by the coffee pot at the back of the room. Leaning heavily on the counter he shut out the muted voices from behind him. He couldn't understand why he couldn't speak of exactly what had happened to his father; why it was impossible to say those words aloud.

He tried to tell himself that it was psychological, that by not saying it he was denying the truth. But Steve knew denial and this was not it. Besides, he'd had no trouble in saying those words to Jesse. Maybe he didn't want to say those words again in case he ended up driving somebody else he cared about from his life.

_Jesse._

He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut – praying that when he opened them again he would be at home in his bed and this would all turn out to be some horrible, twisted nightmare: that the accident had never happened; that his father was not crippled; and that he had not driven his best friend to God only knew where and with him having no hope of finding him.

But that was never going to be the case and it was with some effort that he opened his eyes when a hand settled on the small of his back.

"Steve, I'm so sorry." Cheryl's remorse was written all over her face and tears stood out in her eyes. "If there's anything I can do…"

"Yeah." Steve swallowed heavily, still not in complete control of his emotions. He felt as though he were being torn in two. He needed to find Jesse, but there was nothing on Earth that could drag him away from the hospital. "Yeah, there is. I need you to find Jesse Travis."

"Jesse Travis?" Cheryl was understandably confused. "We're in the middle of a hospital and you want me to find you a doctor?"

"Just… Just find him…" Steve didn't appreciate the mild attempt at humour. "Find him and bring him back here. Please."

"Steve…"

"I have to go. I…" He was close to losing it again and he didn't want his colleagues to witness it. "If anyone needs me, I'll be with my father."

With that, he brushed past Cheryl and – ignoring Newman completely – hurried from the room.

* * *

The TV was switched on – and it as the muted sounds of unfamiliar voices that woke Jesse the next morning. He hadn't even been aware of falling asleep. After his horrific nightmare, he had been convinced that he would never sleep again. But sheer exhaustion had eventually won out.

He had dreamed again – of that there was no doubt, because he wasn't even allowed the briefest moment of respite; never suffered any unsettling disorientation when he found himself in some motel room and not at home in his apartment. He awoke feeling the exact same devastation that had haunted him throughout the previous day.

But alongside the devastation there was a new feeling beginning to nag at him. He had felt it a little the night before, when he'd switched on the TV to try and drown out the accusatory voices that couldn't be silenced completely. And he felt it again as he sat up on the bed and glanced at his watch, absently noting that it was close to seven am. That feeling was non-professionalism.

Mark had had his first nights sleep since the accident – and Jesse hoped that it had been a restful one. With the morning, the amputation site would have to be checked, the dressings changed and there should be a thorough examination for any sign of infection.

And it was Jesse's job to do those things. He had been the surgeon to perform the procedure; he should have been involved with the aftercare. There were too many things that could still go wrong and, suddenly plagued by self doubt, Jesse was forced to wonder if everything had gone as smoothly as he wanted to believe.

His memory of the operation was tainted by the images of his nightmare and the questions began to come more quickly than he could answer them. What if a haematoma had formed? If not detected and treated quickly then further surgery would be required. What about an infection? Though he had done everything in his power to prevent such a thing, it was always a very real danger. There was also the risk of necrosis – something else that would need careful monitoring.

And, while Kirk Fitzpatrick was a more than competent doctor, he didn't have Jesse's experience. Nor did he have such a vested interest in the patient. Kirk didn't hold Mark closer to his heart than even his own father.

Jesse rubbed one hand through sweat-soaked hair and allowed his eyes to drift to the telephone on the nightstand. He could call and ask. They wouldn't have to know that it was him. He could ask if he'd spent a comfortable night; if his condition was still stable; how he'd been on his return to consciousness.

Then he closed his eyes as he was forced to dismiss the idea. No receptionist worth their salt would blithely give him that information. They would want to know who he was – and if he was a relative. And they most definitely wouldn't respond to the enquiries of someone who refused to identify themselves.

But, no matter what right he had to ask those questions, there was no way that he could tell anyone who he was. He didn't think he could bear to hear any more condemnatory words – even if they were from the mouth of an anonymous receptionist.

So a phone call was out of the question – and he still had no way of knowing how his dear friend fared.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Eight.

Cheryl stood outside the door of Jesse's apartment and knocked as loudly as she could. When that failed to elicit a response, she took out her gun and – heedless of the hour – used the butt of it to knock even louder.

After Steve had fled from the doctors' lounge as though the hounds of hell were on his heels, Doctor Fitzpatrick had one more piece of the puzzle to give her. She knew everything that transpired between the two men who had – only that morning – been the very best of friends.

On receiving no answer to her frantic knocking, fear began to churn in Cheryl's gut. Fitzpatrick had been seriously worried and, recalling her partner's plea for her to find Jesse, she knew that Steve had been worried too.

She knew Jesse reasonably well and, in fact, liked him – despite his tendency to turn up where he shouldn't and get involved in things that were none of his business. His irrepressible personality had melted harder hearts than hers.

Anger flooded through her at the thought that he might be suffering over something so totally beyond his control and she thudded the butt of the gun against the door so hard that it chipped the wood.

"Hey!"

A voice from down the corridor startled Cheryl and she whirled around – instinct and a deep sense of unease causing her to take aim with the weapon still clenched in her fist.

"Whoa!" The building's landlady stopped in her tracks and threw her hands up into the air. "I… I'm sorry…" she stammered. "I didn't… I didn't see anything..."

"It's okay." With a barely suppressed sigh, Cheryl holstered her gun and, instead, withdrew her badge. "LAPD."

"Oh, my God…" Clara slowly lowered her hands. "What's going on? I could hear you downstairs. You're making enough noise to wake the…" She trailed off, swallowing heavily. "Say, nothing's happened to the doctor, has it? He's not in trouble is he?"

"No, Mrs..?"

"Gerrard – Clara Gerrard." She offered a tentative smile and was mightily relieved to see it returned, albeit with very little enthusiasm.

"Have you seen Doctor Travis recently?" Cheryl asked, needing to get down to business and so having no time for pleasantries. She hadn't been joking when she'd told Steve about the sudden upsurge in reported homicides.

"Yes." Clara felt a sense of unease creep up on her. "Yesterday evening – I saw him in the hallway. He was on his way out. I said 'good evening' but he never answered. That's not like him." The woman paused, realising that it was not just unlike Jesse, it was actually totally out of character for the normally polite young man. "What..?" She looked at Cheryl a little nervously. "What's he supposed to have done?"

"Nothing – except for disappear." The detective ignored the woman's startled gasp and fished into her pocket. "If you hear anything from him – anything at all – I want you to call me." She handed Clara her number. "Anytime, day or night, call me. He's not in trouble," she stressed – seeing a speculative look flash across the landlady's face. "His friends just want to find him – we're worried about him.

* * *

Unfamiliar noises also woke Steve as that morning dawned. Like Jesse – so many miles away – he had been convinced that sleep would be a stranger. But, when he'd settled himself into a deliberately hard and uncomfortable chair at his father's bedside, exhaustion had won the battle over his demons, too.

A door opened and closed. There was the squeak of rubber wheels on linoleum, the rattle of metal trays and – again, like Jesse – he knew exactly where he was before he opened his eyes. He had been in the hospital often enough for even his subconscious to recognise those sounds.

Pain shot through his stiff neck as he straightened from his slumped position, but that was instantly forgotten as his eyes snapped open and he found himself meeting his father's steady gaze.

"Have you been there all night?" Mark asked, softly.

"Dad! How are you feeling?" Steve ignored the question he'd been asked. "Are you in any pain? Should I fetch the doctor?"

"I'm alright, son." But in spite of his words, the older man still sounded tired. "And I'm sure that Jesse will be along very soon."

Steve looked away, feeling guilt colour his cheeks. Now was the perfect opportunity for him to explain what had happened – to confess – but his mind just couldn't formulate the words.

"Dad…" Cowardly though it may have been, he took the easy option and hurriedly changed the subject. "When you woke up yesterday, you said you were sorry."

"I was sorry," Mark murmured. "You looked so worried, so scared."

"I was, dad, but… you said you were sorry for the crash." Impulsively he grabbed hold of his father's hand. "But it wasn't your fault, dad. I checked and it wasn't your fault. It was an accident – you couldn't have done anything to prevent it." The words came out in a rush – so desperate was he to reassure Mark and take away his guilt. But, when he next met the older man's eyes, they were filled with tears.

"I could hear them screaming." The tearful gaze grew distant. "A baby was crying and then there was silence. I couldn't help them. I think I heard them die."

Steve's heart constricted in his chest and his throat felt suddenly tight. He couldn't even imagine what hell that must have been for such a compassionate man. But he could, at least, offer him one small ray of hope.

"The baby survived," he whispered. "She's still alive and Kirk says that she's going to be alright."

"Kirk? I don't understand." His confusion was evident in his voice. "Where's Jesse?"

Just then, and with remarkably bad timing, the door opened and Kirk stepped into the room, just in time to hear Mark's words.

Steve could feel his eyes boring into him and he bowed his head. How was his father going to react to the terrible thing he had done? He was already upset, emotionally overwrought and in pain both physically and mentally. How could he possibly add to that suffering?

He would be devastated that Jesse, who – Steve knew – he loved as a son, had been driven from their lives. And he wasn't about to do anything that might compromise his father's recovery. Besides, he now had Cheryl on board. Even as they sat there, she might have tracked Jesse down and been on her way back to the hospital with him. If that were the case, then he would be putting his dad through immeasurable trauma for nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Steve raised his head and looked Mark straight in the eye.

"Jesse's had it really tough these past couple of days." That, at least, was true. "He's been putting hours in that you wouldn't believe. He was exhausted, dad – and close to collapse. I sent him… I sent him away."

Inwardly, Steve was wincing. He'd tried to keep things simple and not lie outright – even if his words were a long way from being the truth, but he still didn't dare look to see what Kirk's reaction had been. But his father – possibly still numbed by drugs and not as astute as he might normally be – seemed to accept it.

"Knowing Jesse, he won't stay away for long." Mark smiled wearily. "I hope he doesn't. I wanted to thank him."

That almost proved to be Steve's undoing. He felt tears of anger – at himself; at the weather; at some anonymous tanker driver who even now lay in the morgue – fill his eyes. Mark misinterpreted their meaning entirely.

"I'll be alright, Steve," he said, softly. "It's hard and I won't pretend that I'm not afraid, but I still have my life and that's the only thing you should focus on right now."

"I'm sorry…" Steve lost his battle against the tears and blinked rapidly as he stumbled to his feet. "I… I can't…"

And he was through the door before either Kirk or Mark could say a word to try and stop him.

* * *

"Doctor Sloan." Kirk's voice was calm amidst the raging emotions, but even his eyes held a hint of moisture. He could scarcely believe what was happening – and to some of the most incredible people he'd ever had the privilege of knowing. Nobody deserved this less than they did. He sought to hold on to his professionalism. "I need to examine your wound now."

"Kirk, please." Mark's hand caught hold of his forearm and gripped it with surprising strength. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

"Doctor Sloan…" Kirk stalled, his eyes drifting towards the door that Steve had so recently exited. He knew that he could explain – even knew that he probably should – but something stilled his tongue; something that existed solely between the father and son.

"Please." The older doctor was almost begging and it stabbed at Kirk's heart to hear it. "I need to know. Something's happened to Jesse, hasn't it? I remember… I remember Amanda saying that he was here, but why isn't he here now?" His confusion was evident on his features and another possibility occurred to him. "Or did I dream that? There were lots of dreams."

"No, it wasn't a dream." Kirk wished that it had been – it would save him from this almost impossible task. "Jesse was in surgery with you. He saved your life."

"Kirk." All confusion was gone and Mark looked up at his colleague with serious eyes. "You know that I have every faith in you as a doctor. You don't need me to tell you just how gifted you are, but why isn't Jesse here? If he…" He trailed off, swallowing heavily. "If he was my surgeon… If he… If he performed the operation… Something must have happened, or I know that he'd be here – no matter how exhausted he might be. Please, where is he?"

Unable to deny those words, the young doctor sank down onto the edge of the bed. His chosen career meant that he often had to be the bearer of bad news, but he had never faced a task as difficult as the one he was now confronted with.

"Steve never lied to you – not really." Kirk chose his words carefully, trying to break the news as gently as possible. "Jesse was exhausted. You know yourself just how hard he's been working lately." He paused, his gaze falling to his hands. "The problem was… Well, Amanda insisted that he go home and get some sleep in his own bed. She even drove him – he'd only been sleeping in the on-call room."

"I know," Mark murmured, still seeing no resolution to the mystery. "I almost did the same thing myself."

"And he wasn't here when you were brought in." Kirk bit the bullet and took the plunge. "He was late for work yesterday. He overslept."

"But I thought you said that he was here." It was frustrating for Mark, being unable to decipher the clues even as they were laid out before him. "I don't understand."

"He got here just as soon as he could." The younger doctor continued with his explanation. "Just as soon as Amanda called him. He was in surgery with you – just not right away."

"So now he's blaming himself…" Mark's eyes closed as he thought he saw the answer to the mystery – one that was so typical of his absent friend.

"It's worse than that," Kirk concluded grimly, hating what he was forced to say next: "Steve blamed him, too."

The sigh that Mark released in response to this was both deep and heartfelt. He closed his eyes, briefly: "What happened?"

"Mark, you really shouldn't be concerning yourself with this." The young doctor tried to reason with his colleague – even though he feared that his efforts would be futile. "You should be concentrating on your recovery. You have been in a serious accident and have suffered a major shock. That's what you should be focussing on. That and the future – your future."

"Do you think I've done anything other than focus on that?" Mark's eyes strayed to the stump that had once been his arm and the horror of his situation made his tone harsh. "It's not the sort of thing that you can just ignore."

"I know and I'm sorry." Kirk was quick to apologise. His own words hadn't been the most gentle. "But you shouldn't be taking on the troubles of Jesse and Steve – not on top of everything else that you have to contend with. We need to talk, Mark. Not about what's happened to anybody else – but about what's happened to you."

The defiance that had sparked in Mark's eyes faded as he heard those words. He knew that his young colleague had spoken the truth – and just as frankly as Jesse would have, had he been there. He even recognised the denial he had retreated into. By concentrating on what had happened between Steve and Jesse, he didn't have to dwell on his own situation. And that, quite simply, wasn't a healthy way of dealing with it.

He was disabled. That was the stark and brutal truth and, no matter how much he tried to hide from that truth, it wasn't simply going to go away. He was going to have to face some major changes in his lifestyle and one of those changes would be accepting the fact that he was, after all, only human.

No matter how many times he may have seemed it – and even felt it – in the past, he wasn't Superman. Now he would have to rely on others, at least until he learned to adapt to his disability. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes and they escaped before he could stop them.

"Why?" he demanded – finally confronting the truth, even as it left him reeling. "Why me? What have I done so wrong that I deserve this?"

* * *

It was disconcerting to see Mark Sloan disintegrate so completely and Kirk was almost paralysed by the sight. The Head of Internal Medicine was strong and vital and an integral part of Community General. His tears were an alien and frightening thing.

But Kirk refused to let his shock overwhelm him. First and foremost he was a doctor and he had often faced such devastation. It was a part of his chosen career.

His seat on the edge of the bed afforded him the ideal location and his knowledge of Mark was sufficient to stop him from coddling the older man. Instead he sat where he was, his hand a comforting presence on the trembling shoulder and waited for the initial trauma to pass.

"It's alright, Mark." His voice was soft and almost inaudible – the tone being infinitely more important than the words. "It's a perfectly natural reaction. It's alright to feel sad and scared and even angry. It's okay. Just go with it…"

And he stayed in that position, murmuring reassuring words as he maintained that vital physical contact, until Mark rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in a broken, devastated voice.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Kirk assured him. "It was to be expected."

"I should have seen it coming." Mark shook his head, his composure slowly returning. "And I shouldn't have fought it so damned hard. Do you know how many times I've had to break news like this to someone? I've seen every reaction imaginable and yet…" He looked at Kirk with something akin to helplessness. "I once had to tell a twelve year old Olympic standard gymnast that she would never walk again. I destroyed her career – she was destined for the very top. But I shattered her dreams."

Kirk merely nodded in silent understanding. It was always hard to be the bearer of bad news – and sometimes it felt as though the news was impossible to impart; that you could never find the words. But you always did. You always found a way. Because you had to.

"That girl had her whole life ahead of her," Mark continued with his story. "And that life had centred on sports and coordination and grace and all the other things it takes to be an athlete. And she left here in a wheelchair." His eyes grew distant as the memory grew stronger. "But on that day – on the day she went home – she came to me and she thanked me. She said that I'd taught her to see beyond her disability and focus on what she could do rather than what she couldn't." He blinked, returning to the present. "I don't think I've ever met a child quite like her. The courage…"

Still Kirk didn't speak, though he had been moved by Mark's words. It had been a humbling story.

"I have been on this Earth for more than sixty years," he said, softly. "She still had sixty years ahead of her. And yet she… She was such an inspiration…" He trailed off with a sigh. "Who am I to rage at the injustice? I've lived my life… I've more than lived it." He raised his hand and laid it on top of the one that Kirk still had rested on his shoulder. "I need you to find Steve for me. We have a lot to talk about."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for the continued reviews and support. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Nine.

Jesse only stayed in the motel for one night. He had found no escape there and the solitude had left him with too much time to think – or rather to listen to the voices that steadfastly refused to leave him alone.

At least when he was driving he had something else to concentrate on. He had to focus on the road, to forcibly stop his mind from drifting to places that he would rather not go, in order not to cause an injury either to himself or anybody else.

But still, it was with very little conscious thought that he headed back to the freeway and resumed his somewhat aimless journey north.

The freeway itself quickly became a problem. It was tedious and mind-numbing and, for a steady driver such as he, provided little need for concentration. That was when the haunting, disturbing, terrifying images again returned to torment him.

And there was another disturbing thought that was just starting to force its way into his awareness. On the freeway, he was surrounded by cars – surrounded by people. They all had someplace to go, some destination in mind. They were getting on with their lives and the road was just a means of getting where they needed to be, to do whatever it was they needed to do.

Families heading to or from vacation; businessmen risking life and limb by juggling their cell phones as they drove; truckers, delivery drivers, salesmen. They were all on that freeway for a reason.

Jesse, on the other hand, was simply driving with the vague notion that he would eventually run out of land. It was disconcerting and unsettling and he constantly found his eyes straying to the occupants of those other vehicles as they overtook, or were overtaken by, him. He wondered where they were going – and what they would do when they got there. Did they really want to go to their chosen destination? Or did any of them, like him, simply have nowhere to go? Were there any other drivers on that particular stretch of highway who was running away – who had nothing left behind them and nothing to aim for ahead?

These thoughts gradually became more consuming and his eyes wandered more and more often from the road. He didn't even realise just how much his concentration had lapsed until there was the sudden, shocking blast of an air-horn from dangerously close behind him.

He was rudely reminded of exactly where he was and instinct alone caused him to reflexively jerk his steering wheel and straighten his car wheels. He avoided collision with the UPS van – whose lane he had almost wandered into even as it moved to overtake him – by mere inches. A second blast of the horn and an angry gesture from the driver didn't come close to expressing just how shaken the entire incident had left the young doctor. He had been determined not to be a danger to others – had forced himself to eat and sleep in order for that not to happen – and yet he had come within mere seconds of causing an accident.

Jesse left the freeway at the very next exit and pulled over at the first rest stop he came to. It was a long time before he could control his trembling enough to start driving again.

* * *

Kirk didn't immediately go in search of Steve. He couldn't, he still had a job to do and he insisted on giving Mark a thorough examination and changing the dressing on his wound before he left.

It wasn't an easy task and he could feel Mark's eyes following his every move. The knowledge that he was being scrutinised by probably the greatest doctor ever to walk the halls of Community General was daunting and unnerving, but he must have passed muster because Mark didn't say a word throughout the procedures.

Only when he was completely satisfied that he had done everything he could for his patient did Kirk undertake the unenviable task of trying to track down Steve Sloan.

In fact, it turned out to be easier than he had anticipated. For the simple reason that he didn't know where to look, Kirk headed straight to Amanda's room and, even as he approached, he could see Steve standing outside looking in.

He approached the detective a little nervously, totally unable to read the expression on his face and not really knowing what he was going to say. It was Steve who broke the silence.

"Has she been there all night?" he asked softly.

"She needed the rest," Kirk answered, following Steve's gaze through the window. Amanda was still sleeping and looking mercifully peaceful. He hoped that her slumber would last for a while longer at least – the peace, he knew, would not.

"How's my dad?"

Kirk sighed and looked downwards. "He's coming to terms with things – slowly." He glanced sidelong at the other man. "He wants to talk to you."

Steve didn't respond in anything like the way that Kirk had expected – he didn't even avert his eyes from Amanda's sleeping form. "When will she wake up?" he asked, quietly.

"Soon." Kirk was thrown by the question, but tried not to let it show. "I'm surprised that she hasn't already. It's probably her body's way of coping."

"Can… can you wake her?" He didn't wait for the doctor's inevitable question as to why, but dove straight into his reason for asking. "I can't… I can't do this alone."

* * *

On another day, in another time – perhaps even in another life – it would have been a beautiful drive. The highways of Southern Oregon were famed for their scenery and the stunning landscape that they wound their way through. But Jesse noticed none of it. He was focussed only on the road ahead – the never-ending asphalt that guided him to God knew where.

He paid no heed to the majestic mountains or the spectacular forests; ignored the brief glimpses of the angry ocean, before the road drew him further inland. He wasn't even aware of the storm that had seemingly followed him from LA, the dark grey skies mocking the desolation in his soul.

It was almost without thought that he flicked on his wipers as the first raindrops spattered on his windshield and it was an equally automatic reaction that had him turning on his headlights as the sky darkened dramatically and the storm broke with full force.

But he could not ignore, nor react instinctively to, the amber light on his dashboard that suddenly caught his attention. It blinked at him and he felt his heart sink as another cruel blow was dealt to him. He had thought that things could not possibly get any worse but fate had proved him wrong. He was out of gas.

Vaguely, Jesse recalled the huge signpost that he had passed, warning travellers to fill up their tanks. Gas stations were few and far between on this stretch of road. He tried to remember how many miles the signpost had stated before the next one, but the memory wasn't there.

Now Jesse was forced to pay more attention to his surroundings. His car was still running, but he knew that that wouldn't last long. The reserve in his tank would only be good for a couple more miles. He had to find someplace to stop.

But the storm seemed almost directly overhead. Visibility was severely limited and his wipers were struggling to keep the windshield clear of the torrential rain. It also seemed that he was alone on the road. Anybody with any sense would have sought shelter from the elements long before now. There wasn't even the welcoming sight of a light that might have hinted at civilisation, even if it were only a farmhouse. It would be somewhere to take shelter – to wait out the storm.

His eyes moved constantly – looking for any sign of life, any hint as to what he should do, where he should go. There was nothing but the angry sky that had turned the daylight into full darkness.

His cellphone was nestled in his jacket pocket and he briefly thought about using it. Then he laughed bitterly to himself. Who was he about to call? Certainly not any of those who he had left behind. He knew that they wouldn't care about the predicament he had got himself into. They would only see it as another sign of his incompetence. The Auto Club, perhaps? That wasn't an option either. He had no idea where he was; no clue as to the identity of the nearest town – and 'somewhere in Southern Oregon' wasn't going to be of much help. He hadn't even thought to look up any local sheriff's numbers and he wasn't about to tie up the emergency services by dialling 911. The storm would be keeping them busy enough as it was.

_Make a decision, dammit,_ he chastised himself. _Find somewhere safe to pull over, or keep going as far as you can. Just make a decision!_

Stray memories that had constantly lurked at the edge of his consciousness rushed to the fore, again.

"_No! I'm going to amputate at the elbow. I can save the rest of the arm!"_

He had made that decision, had made it with barely a moment's thought. He had calmly chosen to cripple a man whom he loved as a father, to change his life forever. And he still didn't know how Mark fared. He still had no way of knowing whether any complications had set in, whether Mark had even regained consciousness, whether the unthinkable had happened – which was by no means impossible – and the shock had proved too much and he had passed away during the night.

That thought proved too much for the already distraught young man. Still functioning on something resembling autopilot, he drew his car to a halt at the side of the road. Even as he applied the brakes, the engine spluttered and died. But Jesse didn't even notice. He collapsed forwards over the steering wheel and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

* * *

Cowardly was not often a word used to describe Steve Sloan, but that was most definitely how he felt as he watched Kirk gently touch Amanda's shoulder – trying to wake her without giving her too much of a shock.

She was going to be furious with him – she might even hate him – and what made it worse was the fact that he knew she had every right to feel that way. He had behaved appallingly and, while it was easy for him to blame his behaviour on his own shock, he knew that it wasn't really quite so simple.

Steve liked to think that he was a realist. He had heard the details of the crash, knew the grim aftermath and the devastating death toll. In his heart he knew that his father was lucky to be alive. So why hadn't he rejoiced in the good news? Why had he lashed out so cruelly, so unforgivably? Jesse hadn't deserved any of the things that he'd said to him – he certainly hadn't deserved to be attacked.

Now, looking back, Steve recalled the agony on his young friend's face as he'd absorbed the words almost as though they were physical blows. He could still see the depth of pain in those normally gentle blue eyes. And it wasn't just the pain that he had inflicted; it was the agony of what he'd been forced to do, the aftermath of the pressure of the OR, the acknowledgement of his own failure as he'd been forced to amputate Mark's arm.

He hadn't needed Steve to throw that blame at him – he had carried it into the room with him when he'd come to break the news. So why hadn't Steve – as a true friend would – tried to alleviate some of that guilt? Why hadn't he listened and understood and accepted the fact that without Jesse, his father would be dead? Why hadn't he said 'thank you'?

The answer to those questions was simple – even if accepting that answer wasn't quite so straightforward. For the first time ever, things hadn't turned out alright. There had been no happy ending and he had needed someone to blame. Otherwise he would have had to accept it for what it was – a stupid, pointless and ultimately avoidable accident.

That was what had crippled his father and devastated so many lives. And it forced him to accept the bitter truth that in real life there often was no justice.

In the room outside which he still stood, Amanda stirred beneath Kirk's touch. Steve took a deep breath, preparing himself for he wasn't sure what. He only knew that he had to start putting things right – and he would need all the help he could get to do it.

* * *

"I've been a jerk."

Amanda looked up at the sound of Steve's voice from the doorway. She might have taken his words as being flippant if it hadn't been for the expression on his face. He looked so contrite – so humble. But she still couldn't find a smile for him.

"It's not me who needs to hear those words, Steve," she answered, softly.

"I know." Steve ventured further into the room. "That's why I want… I need you to help me."

"Haven't we already been through this?" Amanda's voice was heavy with sadness. Her brief respite of sleep had done little more than to enable her to forget for a while, but the memories had been rudely thrust back upon her the very moment she had awoken. "I don't know where Jesse is. I don't even know where to start looking."

"That's not what I meant. I…" Steve paused. He wasn't enjoying adding to the burden that she was so obviously carrying, but he could see no alternative. "My dad… He knows something of what happened."

"To Jesse?" Amanda's surprise was clear in her tone. "You told him?"

"No." Steve looked away, shamefacedly. "He was asking after Jesse and I… I ran away. Kirk must have told him something."

"Only the bare minimum."

Steve started in surprise at the voice. He had completely forgotten that Kirk was still in the room and he flashed the doctor an apologetic glance for talking about him in the third person.

"He knows that you blamed Jesse for his condition, but very little else," Kirk continued, waving away the apology.

"So now you've finally decided to stop running." Amanda looked up at him, but Steve could only frown at her choice of words. "From the truth, Steve," she explained, seeing his expression. "From blaming everyone and everything when there is nothing to blame; from your own guilt."

Steve felt an argumentative retort spring to his lips, but ruthlessly suppressed it. Amanda was only saying aloud what he had already said to himself.

"I'm trying, Amanda," he said, instead. "I really am."

Amanda's anger faded a little at the sincerity that was so obvious in his tone. She knew how hard this was for him – not only adapting to what had happened, but also being completely unable to do anything about it. There was no villain to be caught, no crime to be solved, no justice to be sought. There was just acceptance – and that was not easy to come by for any of them.

"I know," she murmured in response. Then she took a deep breath. It was time to start getting practical.

She looked at Kirk. It was strange looking to him for guidance. Though she had known him for more than two years now, he wasn't a close friend; he wasn't one of their tight-knit little groups that had helped each other out so often in the past. But now he was Mark's doctor and would have to be involved in everything that they did. Even though her heart ached for it to be Jesse's eyes that gazed back at her so earnestly.

"Who's with Mark now?" she asked, knowing that Kirk would not have left him alone.

"Leila Davis," the doctor answered. Seeing the blank look on Steve's face, he elaborated: "She's a psychologist and…" He held up one hand, cutting off Steve's imminent retort. "She just wanted a chat with Mark – informally – so that she can get some idea of his reactions. It will help in her full evaluation and ensure that he gets exactly the type of help he needs."

"We should wait until she's finished," Amanda put in, reluctantly. She wasn't relishing the prospect of facing Mark with the news about Jesse, but she was aching to see him again.

"She won't mind being interrupted." Kirk smiled as Amanda's expression changed to one of surprise. "Mark isn't going to be satisfied with the little that I told him about Jesse – I'll be surprised if Leila's making any progress at all with him. He's going to be asking too many questions of his own."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Apologies for the delay in updating, but I've only had one day off in the last nine! Talk about exhausted...**

**Thanks for the continued reviews and support. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Ten.

"Sloan!" Cheryl's voice rang down the corridor and Steve murmured for the others to go on without him before turning to face her.

His initial reaction was one of disappointment in seeing that she was alone. But then he supposed he shouldn't have expected anything else. She also, he noticed, looked more than a little annoyed.

"When you ask me to do something for you, you could at least do me the courtesy of leaving your phone switched on so that I can keep you up to speed," she snapped.

Steve frowned. He couldn't remember turning his phone off. He dragged it from his pocket, looked at it and then offered his partner a sheepish smile: "Battery's dead," he explained.

"I tried to get in touch with you last night, but..." She shrugged and let the matter drop. "I wasn't going to trek all the way over here just to tell you nothing."

"Nothing?" Steve's heart sank at her words. He had been so hoping to have something positive to take to his father. "What do you mean nothing?"

"I don't know where Jesse is." The words were accompanied by another shrug. "His landlady saw him leave some time yesterday evening. He didn't say where he was going or when he'd be coming back. Sorry. Look, Steve, was there anything else? I really want to go home."

Steve looked at her, noticing for the first time how exhausted she looked and felt like a heel for asking anything of her. He knew that she'd had a rough day the previous day – the bad weather seeming to have brought out the worst in the citizens of LA – and yet he'd still had her running errands for him.

"I'm sorry," he said – and he meant it. "You go on home. Thanks, Cheryl."

"Steve…" She hesitated, seeming suddenly awkward. "Tell Mark… Tell him, well, we're all thinking about him, you know?"

"Thanks," he murmured, glancing downwards – not wanting her to see how moved he was by those simple words.

* * *

Jesse didn't know what it was that possessed him to leave the relative safety of his car. He only knew that he couldn't stay there, alone with his thoughts and the voices that perpetually haunted him. He needed to be moving, to be getting away, to continue his trek north – not that he believed that there was anything waiting for him anywhere ahead. He focussed on it solely to have a reason to keep going, so that he wouldn't merely curl up into a ball and give up on life completely.

The same mindless instinct kept him placing one foot in front of the other long after the driving rain had soaked him to the skin. The wind – gusting and powerful – caused him to lose his balance more than once, but he continued to stumble along. Not thinking, not caring – just moving. He favoured one leg – the other having sprained an ankle during one of his numerous falls and his face was numb from the cold, but he never once considered stopping; never once sought out the most meagre shelter. His movements were those of an automaton: unthinking and unfeeling; driven by he didn't know what.

But the pain and the cold and the discomfort kept his mind from dwelling on other things. And so he continued.

Focussed only on the need to keep on placing one foot in front of the other, he had even ceased to flinch at the sudden flashes of lightning that illuminated the turbulent skies and the incessant rumbles of thunder no longer even caused him to raise his head.

And so, when the voice – the scream – sounded from somewhere close by, it was a long moment before it registered to his disassociated senses.

"Help! Oh God, please! Somebody, help!"

Jesse stopped in his tracks and slowly raised his head. The old Jesse would have gone running towards the obvious sounds of distress, but the old Jesse had died back in LA. He was just a shell – a shadow of the man who would have thought nothing of diving headlong into danger. But now he could only stand there, wondering what it was that he was hearing and what he should do about it.

"Help me! Please!"

There was such desperation in the woman's voice that it penetrated even his numbed soul. His movements were still uncertain as he left the safety of the road and headed into the undergrowth, trying to track down the origin of that voice.

"H… hello?" His voice was weak and insubstantial – the words snatched away by the wind the moment that they were uttered. He tried again: "Where are you?" But those words fared no better.

Crashing through the undergrowth, Jesse suddenly burst into a clearing and chanced upon his goal. It wasn't, he belatedly realised, a clearing. It was another road – a surfaced road, although it was in disrepair – but it was well worn, indicating that it did have frequent use.

Now though, its only occupant was an old Winnebago – and that wasn't going anywhere in the foreseeable future. It sat at the bottom of an incline and the road before it had been washed away in a flash flood. A four-by-four might have attempted to traverse the shallow looking gap, but the battered van with its uncertain centre of gravity would never make it. There was no place for them to turn around and reversing back up the incline was not an option. The continuing rain had turned that hill almost into a stream in its own right.

But, though the situation was unpleasant, it was not impossible. Escape on foot – particularly if they had some destination in mind – was still a relatively easy option. It didn't account for the sheer desperation that he'd heard in those screams.

Jesse saw the woman before she saw him. She was kneeling in the mud, her hands gripping the shoulders of a young boy and talking to him urgently. She was shouting to be heard above the storm and snatches of her words carried to where Jesse stood.

"… for help… you… brave… Millie…"

"H… Hello?" His voice still hesitant and uncertain, Jesse took a cautious step forwards. He held one hand out in front of him, trying to look none threatening, but his sudden appearance had exactly the effect he'd feared. The woman let out a startled shriek and pulled the boy closer to her.

"Who… who are you?" she demanded, though her fear was still evident in her voice – in spite of her attempt to be brave.

Seeing the apprehension in her eyes, Jesse took another half-step forwards. His sudden appearance out of the storm was bound to be frightening – he had no plausible reason to be there – but he couldn't walk away. No matter what had happened, some instincts were too deeply ingrained to be lost forever. And this woman needed help. The very essence that made him who he was meant that he could never have just left her to her plight.

He knew that he looked a mess. He was soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his head. He'd been scratched and bloodied by his battle through the undergrowth and his limp had grown more pronounced, but he put every ounce of sincerity he had into his next words.

"My name's Jesse Travis." He still held out one hand, almost in supplication. "I want to help you. I'm a…" He trailed off – felt something other than the rain wetting his cheeks. "I used to be a doctor."

Something – neither of them would ever know what – got through to her and she relaxed the very merest fraction. It was enough for Jesse to take one final step as the woman got to her feet.

"It… it's my daughter." She still wasn't ready to trust completely and Jesse saw her desperate internal battle as she struggled to ascertain which was the greater danger – him, or whatever it was that was threatening her little girl. "She's sick…"

She still kept her body between him and the door of the Winnebago. Her son, Jesse realised, had slipped out from behind her, where she had instinctively pushed him and was regarding him openly.

"She's dying," the boy said, with the stark simplicity of a child.

Jesse's heart contracted in his chest. How could fate be so cruel to him? He was running away from the greatest failure of his medical career – of his life – only to be confronted by a dying child on a deserted road and with no hope of any other help happening upon them. It was the sickest of jokes; the most vicious of ironies.

To his dismay, the mother didn't try to refute the boy's words – didn't admonish him for lying or even exaggerating. Instead, those blunt words seemed to force her into a decision – and she chose to trust.

"Can you help her?" she asked – and Jesse could see the pleading in her face, even through the rain and the tears that ravaged it.

Involuntarily, Jesse looked down at his hands – his accursed hands. The last time they had tried to help, they had maimed. He couldn't risk that happening again – but how could he just do nothing?

"I can go for help," he offered, seeking some simple way out. It would, at least, spare the boy the trauma of having to trek through the storm.

"Do you have a car?" Sudden hope flashed across her features. "Will you take us to the hospital? Please – it's not far, not by car. Just a few miles."

"My… my car…" Jesse glanced helplessly back over his shoulder, wondering how long it had been since he'd abandoned the Mustang – how far behind he had left it. "I ran out of gas…"

A sob escaped the young woman and her shoulders sagged. Jesse could see that she was close to collapse and her son obviously saw it too.

"I can still go to town and get help, mom." He was barely nine years old and was obviously scared – but his voice never wavered. "I'll be okay."

Guilt, shame and self-loathing suddenly swamped Jesse as he heard the bravado of that child. The storm was still raging in full force, there were God only knew what hidden dangers along the way and yet the boy was prepared to brave them – and his own barely concealed terror – all for the sake of his sister.

And he, Jesse Travis, had taken an oath. He had sworn to preserve life and had studied to earn the skills that would enable him to do that. He had been privileged enough to earn the title of "Doctor Travis" and had vowed to live up to all that that entailed.

He lowered his head, swallowing down his own fear. When he next looked up, his gaze was steady.

"Would you like me to take a look at her?" he asked – and his voice was every bit as unwavering as the boy's had been.

* * *

There was complete silence in Mark's hospital room and Steve was finding it more than a little unnerving. With both Amanda and Kirk flanking him, he had finally found the courage to face his father and confess to the appalling way that he'd treated Jesse – but then Mark had conspired against that confession being fully voiced. Steve had got as far as saying that he'd lost his temper and had lashed out, angry and upset by what had happened – then his faltering words trailed off completely, when Mark said just one word:

"Stop."

It wasn't spoken with anger, or even upset. It was spoken on a sigh – but it might as well have been a scream; it silenced Steve just as effectively.

As the silence stretched, Steve looked towards Amanda for guidance, but she could only shake her head – looking as helpless and lost as he felt. Kirk had remained close to the door, not wanting to intrude on what was, essentially, a family matter. There would be no help coming from that quarter, either.

Steve mentally rehearsed the beginnings of a dozen sentences that might go some way towards expressing how he was feeling. He even lifted his hand, wanting to touch his father – to offer comfort with physical contact when he could not do it with words – before letting it drop uselessly back into his lap.

"I understand how upset and angry you must feel. After all, I know you." Mark's voice, when it came, startled the detective. It contained none of the extreme emotion he might have expected; just the quiet dignity he always associated with his dad. But there was some emotion there – just beneath the surface – apparent in the way that his eyes kept straying to the remnants of his arm and in the almost indiscernible tremor in his voice. "I felt it too… But Steve… Steve, it's not important…"

"What?" Steve sat bolt upright as he heard those words. He'd remained fixated on his dad's crippling injury – overshadowing even his own feelings of guilt – and so thought he meant that the _amputation _wasn't important. How could anyone, much less his dad, think so little of the loss of a limb? He tried to protest: "You can't…"

But Mark just smiled benignly – seeming to read him as easily as he ever had. "No, son," he interrupted, softly. "I meant…" He hesitated, seeking the right words to make his son see what he now did – if only thanks to his breakdown. "I meant that whatever might have happened since the accident doesn't matter. We should really stop looking back."

"Dad…" Steve didn't want to be absolved of his guilt so easily. "It's not that simple. I drove him away." He didn't need to elaborate on who the 'him' was.

"You lashed out at him. You shouted at him – maybe even struck him." It wasn't a question – he knew his son too well. He closed his eyes. "And you blamed him for making me a cripple."

"Dad…" Steve didn't even recognise his own voice, it was so thick with emotion. To hear his father refer to himself as such felt as though it had torn his heart from his chest.

"But Steve, do you know what you were really blaming him for?" Mark's eyes opened and they were, again, bright with tears. "You were blaming him for not being God, because only He would have been able to save my arm."

"I'm sorry," Steve breathed, feeling sucker-punched by those words. There truly was nothing else he could say.

But the apology proved to be Mark's undoing. As much as he'd thought he'd come to terms with his injury, he was swiftly proved wrong. He couldn't be their strength any more; couldn't be the one to hold it all together; couldn't solve the problem and make everything alright.

Tears filled Mark's eyes. "Steve…" He looked down at his crippled arm again. "I don't know what to do, son." His face crumpled and he looked at his son beseechingly. "I just don't know..."

It was an almost impossible admission to make and it left Mark feeling weak and breathless – and somehow guilty.

"Mark…" Unable to help himself, Kirk took a half-step forwards from his vantage point by the door – concerned by what this trauma was doing to his patient's already fragile state.

"No, Kirk." Fear, pain and uncertainty leant uncharacteristic harshness to his tone. "I lay in that car for hours… hours… watching the blood… knowing what would happen… losing hope…"

"Doctor Sloan." Kirk advanced with more authority, seeing the sudden deterioration – the return to the shock that he had barely had time to recover from. There was a sudden change in the rhythm of the monitors that surrounded his bed and, without taking the time to explain his actions to any of them, he adjusted one of the IVs that snaked from Mark's arm. "You need to rest now. Give yourself time to recover."

"You were there. You saw. God help me, I saw…" His tone began to weaken as the increased medication took effect. "My arm couldn't be saved… It was a miracle that he… saved my life…"

Mark's eyes drifted shut and his breathing evened out – and Steve looked up at the young doctor in alarm, questioning with his eyes.

"He's sleeping again." Kirk sounded immensely relieved by that fact and Steve's worry didn't diminish one iota.

"But he's not… I mean, he's still gonna be alright, isn't he?"

"Steve, you know your father better than any of us," Kirk answered, in a somewhat roundabout way. "You know how curious he is, how impatient he can be – and how he won't rest until he finds answers to whatever mystery he happens to be pursuing."

"But this isn't a mystery…" Steve tried to protest.

"Not what happened to him – no." Again Kirk interrupted him. "Not the accident and not his injuries, but the situation with Jesse is – it has been since the moment he noticed his absence. And that's where the problem lies. I spoke to Leila Davis and she got nowhere with Mark's evaluation. He was too busy worrying about other things to be able to concentrate on his own psychological – and physical – needs. He's still looking for answers – and, I'm sorry Steve, but that's only going to continue hindering his recovery."

They had all moved as Kirk spoke, the doctor opening the door and inviting both Steve and Amanda to precede him from the room. Once he too had exited, he closed it firmly behind him.

"But he's got his answers now," Steve retorted and there was no missing the bitterness and self-recrimination in his tone. "He knows exactly what I did."

"It's not enough." Kirk's words came as no surprise to Amanda, but confusion was evident in Steve's eyes. "Do you really think your father will just leave it at that? Do you think he'll just settle for: 'oh well, Jesse's been driven away. Time to forget about him now.'?"

"Of course he won't!" Irritation at having been asked so obvious a question caused the detective's voice to rise in volume.

"No, he won't. He'll continue to worry and to neglect his own recovery." Kirk's voice never changed in tone and Amanda silently wondered how he did it. He had the patience of a saint. Even Jesse would have probably resorted to yelling by now.

"So whose bright idea was it to tell him about Jesse?" Steve demanded. His dad's tears – his broken words – had left him reeling and the sarcastic retort escaped before he could prevent it. The flat of Amanda's hand connecting with his cheek almost knocked him to the floor – so unexpected was the blow.

"That's your last chance, Steve!" she cried – having barely been given only the fleetest of moments to try and adjust to what had happened. "I won't abandon Mark – I won't leave him to face this alone – but you… You… God help me…"

"Amanda!" Steve had raised a shocked hand to his now stinging face, but the look on the pathologist's face hurt him more than any physical pain ever could. It was filled with agony, with terror and with deep, deep betrayal.

"No, Steve." In spite of the contrast of emotions on her features, her tone was suddenly dangerously low. "I mean it. I'm tired of you lashing out at anyone and everyone; of you always seeking to apportion the blame. What is it going to take to make you see that there is no blame? Stop looking back, Steve – there aren't any answers in the past. You have to start looking forwards. That's the only way that any of us are ever going to get through this."

"Amanda…" Kirk's voice filled the hush that descended and he looked into her tear-filled eyes. "Go home, honey. Go and spend some time with your boys and celebrate the things that are good in your life." Without giving her the chance to respond, he turned to Steve: "And you… You should also realise that you have something to celebrate. Your father is, after all, still alive."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks for the continued reviews and support. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Eleven.

Jesse followed the young woman into the trailer and then froze with horror at the sight that greeted him. A young girl was lying on the floor, writhing in agony. Instinct kicked in, taking over from his despairing, hopeless thoughts. The girl was struggling to breathe and even from a distance, Jesse could see the swelling around her throat.

"Does she have any allergies?" he demanded of the mother. When only silence greeted him, he threw her a distracted glance. "She's in anaphylactic shock. Is she allergic to anything?"

"I… I don't know… I don't think so…"

Jesse knew that his diagnosis was accurate – all of the symptoms were there. He knelt at the girl's side noting how it was not just her throat that was swollen, but her face too. Her skin was clammy as she had descended into shock and her little hands clutched feebly at her stomach.

"Has anything like this ever happened before?" Jesse kept his tone sharp. Time was of the essence and the girl was having increasing difficulty breathing. He tilted her head back, trying to ease her airway further open.

"No…" the mother replied. "No never… Please… What's wrong with her?"

"She needs to be in a hospital." The young doctor's heart sank at the woman's reply. It had been too much to hope that she might have an epinephrine kit to hand – that would have been the easiest solution; a simple injection and the danger would pass. "Have you called 911?"

"I can't get a signal. I tried... Oh God, please… tell me…"

"She's having a severe allergic reaction and it's making it difficult for her to breathe. I don't suppose you happen to have a bronchodilator?"

"A… a what?"

"A broncho…" he shook his head. "An inhaler of some description. Something to dilate her airway." He knew from the blank look on her face that the answer was no. "How about antihistamines? Any form of allergy medicine?"

"No… nothing…" The woman was close to tears. "I didn't know… I mean she's never been allergic to anything. What happened? What caused it?"

"We can worry about that later." The little girl was beginning to wheeze and she had drifted into unconsciousness. They were running out of time. "I'm going to have to…" He squeezed his eyes shut, mentally reviewing his very limited options. "I need to ease her breathing…"

"Oh God… Oh Millie… Please God…"

Jesse could hear the endless litany behind him and it was a distraction that he didn't need. The woman was on the verge of panic – and what he was about to do wouldn't improve her mental state at all. He needed her to be doing something – anything other than hover over him.

"Please, miss…" He frowned, wondering if he'd actually been told her name. If he had, he couldn't remember it.

"Logan. Sarah Logan," she supplied, as though belatedly remembering her manners.

"Sarah…" At first his words were ignored and she returned to her desperate pleading. Reluctantly leaving the child's side, Jesse got to his feet and faced her. "Sarah, I need you to listen to me." He clutched hold of her shoulders for emphasis. "Anything I can do for your daughter will only be a temporary solution. She really needs to get to a hospital. We have to find some way to get her there." When the sobs barely tapered off, Jesse realised that he had no choice but to be brutal. He needed the woman to be strong. He could not do this alone. "I can prolong Millie's life, Sarah, but I can't save it. We have to find some way to move her."

His words had the desired effect, as Sarah finally managed to stop sobbing. She turned her distraught eyes to her daughter for the briefest moment before turning back to Jesse. But before she could say anything, another voice spoke up from the doorway.

"Mom?"

Jesse froze as Sarah turned towards her son. He had completely forgotten about the second child – and he had been standing there the whole time, listening to his pessimistic words. Jesse closed his eyes briefly, wondering if he would ever get anything right again.

"Joey…" Sarah couldn't even find a smile for her son. Her eyes were wide and still tearful – and the expression on her face was one of dread as she sought the words to tell the boy that he was going to lose his baby sister.

Jesse saved her from even having to try, as the first glimmer of an idea finally began to take shape in his exhausted mind. His main priority had to be Millie, but he also had to find some way to keep Sarah and Joey busy – not only to serve as a distraction and enable him to keep his tenuous concentration, but also to find a way of getting them out of there.

"Sarah, how much can you sacrifice?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm. Then he saw the steely resolve that entered her eyes. When she took a deep, steadying breath, he realised that he had been wholly misunderstood. "I mean, your possessions, this van – how important is it? Can you afford it to be destroyed?"

"It's not our home, if that's what you're implying!" Sarah snapped, furiously.

Jesse almost smiled at the sudden fire in her voice – it made a welcome change from helplessness and despair – and he also knew that they would need some of that fire if they were going to save Millie's life.

"I didn't mean that," he answered, gently. "All I meant was that your van is going to have to be gutted. Everything that isn't vital to keeping us moving is going to have to be ripped out."

"You want to lighten the load," the young woman exclaimed, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So we can cross that wash-out…" She trailed off, not sounding overly reassured by the plan.

"Not only that," Jesse replied. "But we also need to build us a bridge."

The plan was so simple that it might have come from Joey's mind instead of Jesse's. Everything they could salvage that wasn't vital to the integral structure or the running of the Winnebago was to be stripped out and used to fill the washed out section of road. Two wood panelling sections of the interior would provide the tracks for them to drive across. But, no matter how much they lightened the load, the weight was still going to be a problem. So they had to shore up those tracks with everything they could lay their hands on.

Jesse wished that he could help as he watched the mother and son carting their every possession out into the storm. Seating and linen, clothes, toys and kitchen equipment all went into the building of their makeshift bridge. And all of it was going to be destroyed. If they managed to get across, then they wouldn't dare stop and try to salvage anything. Time was already of the essence. Even the leather seats were somehow ripped loose – only the driver's seat being left intact.

And all the while that Sarah and Joey essentially sacrificed their possessions, Jesse did his utmost to ensure that their efforts weren't in vain.

But Millie wasn't making it easy for him. Though he had her head tilted right back and kept a firm hand on her forehead, her breathing was gradually becoming more laboured. There wasn't enough time. He knew that her airway would close up completely before they even managed to get underway – and then she would barely have three minutes before irreparable damage was done. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jesse tried again to find a solution. He couldn't cut into her, couldn't perform a tracheotomy here, in these conditions. It wasn't only because he feared that to try would almost certainly cause her death – but he couldn't help but remember the last time he had cut into living flesh.

He began to tremble the moment that the thought crossed his mind and the option was taken from him.

Hovering on the verge of complete despair, Jesse happened to look up and what he saw almost broke his heart. Joey was emerging from a doorway, his arms full with his Spiderman duvet, struggling to walk and almost stumbling over the trailing ends. Then he looked down at the vivid colours and his faltering progress was halted. Tears filled his eyes and he hugged the duvet closer to his chest. He half glanced back over his shoulder – clearly torn by the sacrifice that he was about to make. Then his eyes turned to his sister and, much as his mother had before him, he took a deep breath.

"Sorry, Spidey," he whispered in a tremulous voice. "But you're a hero, right? You'd do this to save Millie."

Joey swallowed his sadness and his forehead furrowed in grim determination. He hurried toward the open door and out into the storm – but not before Jesse had seen the trembling of his bottom lip and the tears that he had silently shed.

Feeling utterly humbled by what he had inadvertently witnessed, Jesse bowed his head and said a silent prayer. No, he couldn't try and operate – but he couldn't give up either. And there was still one thing he could do to save her.

When Sarah next entered the van, Jesse caught hold of her arm and quietly told her what he needed.

* * *

"Keep Joey busy," Jesse hissed, ensuring the little boy wouldn't overhear him. "He really doesn't need to see this."

"What are you going to do?" the young woman asked, still clearly terrified – and half looking as though she didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"I have to intubate her." It was almost as though he was a doctor again – his voice never betrayed him at all. "I have to get air into her lungs and her throat is dangerously swollen. It's only a matter of minutes before it closes up completely. I have to do this now, Sarah."

"What… What can I do to help?"

"Just keep Joey away from her. Keep him building the bridge." He flashed her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "How's that coming along, by the way?"

"Everything we put down seems to just sink into the mud." A sudden sob escaped and her hand flew to her mouth – but too late to stifle it. "I don't think…"

"You'll do it," Jesse told her and then had to wonder where such sudden resolve had come from. It came to him: "I mean, how can you fail? You've got Spiderman in there helping to hold it up."

Sarah made another sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. But unmistakable pride shone from her eyes as she remembered the moment that Joey had emerged from the Winnebago with his most prized possession in his hands.

"He made me believe that we could really do it," she said, eventually.

"And we can," Jesse answered, fervently. "Now go and help him – and let me help your daughter."

As Sarah rose, doubly determined to get back to her task, Jesse caught hold of her wrist.

"Before you sacrifice it all," he muttered, fervently. "Before there's nothing left, I need the tube."

"What? I don't understand… I…" she floundered.

"A tube," Jesse insisted, worry adding uncharacteristic impatience to his tone. "Something flexible and hollow; something that will help her to breathe."

"A drinking straw?" Sarah tentatively suggested.

"No!" He sounded much more harsh than he'd intended, but they were rapidly running out of time. "No," he continued more softly. "I have to get the air into her lungs. It needs to be more flexible than that." He squeezed his eyes shut, wracking his brains as to what they might use.

"Mom?" Joey's voice interrupted the tension.

Both adults turned to look at him. He held something in his hands and was looking at them with troubled eyes.

"Should I use this?" he asked, his eyes again straying towards his sister's inert form. "It's her favourite."

Curiosity compelled Jesse to see what 'it' was – and then his heart soared. It seemed like someone was looking out for them after all.

Joey held a bundle of clothing – the colours and design indicating that it was a child's dress-up nurses' uniform. But what caught Jesse's attention was what was lying on top of those clothes.

Innocent and innocuous – and meant to be no more than a plaything – lay a perfect replica of a stethoscope; exactly the same as the one he had once worn around his neck in the halls of Community General, albeit on a smaller scale.

"Could I borrow that, Joey?" he asked, careful to keep his tone casual. The last thing he needed was for the child to ask why he wanted it.

Joey eyed him dubiously for a long moment, a scowl playing about his features. Wasn't this man supposed to be a doctor? Shouldn't a doctor have his own stethoscope? But then he remembered how Jesse had looked when he'd stumbled across them. He seemed to have nothing other than the clothes that he wore. Finally he gave a small shrug and proffered him the toy. "It ain't real," he said, as he handed it over.

Jesse hid his smile as he nodded his thanks. He didn't need to listen to Millie's chest to know that she was dying.

"I need boiling water – as hot as you can get it." He held the stethoscope in his hands and was already working on dismantling it. "And then I need you to take Joey outside. Start making the tracks. We're running out of time."

"Jesse." The young woman paused before commencing with the tasks that she had been given. "Is she going to die?"

Jesse bowed his head, knowing how much she needed reassuring but unable to find the words. He could not offer her a false promise. Then he looked back up and summoned his most reassuring smile: "I'll do everything I can."

It was all that he had to offer, but it was enough. Sarah offered him a smile of her own.

"Thank you," she said.

* * *

Amanda cried.

At the insistence of both friends and colleagues, she had finally gone home. Once there, she had hugged her sons and told them nothing of what had befallen their adoptive 'grandpa'. Then she had listened as they recounted their own tales of their school days, smiling and commenting at the appropriate times, and finally she had settled them both into bed.

That was when the silence had closed in on her. That was when she realised just how exhausted she was. That was when she wondered where Jesse was and what he was doing. And, more importantly, if he had anyone there for him.

"_Where would he go?" _she silently asked herself. _"Who would he turn to?"_

She feared that she knew the answer to her second question and the answer was no-one. He wasn't close to his family. In fact, she knew that he considered his friends in LA as more of a family than those who were related by blood. And he had run away from the three people that he held most dear to his heart.

In the silence of her house, Amanda finally accepted just how scared she was. She was scared because all of their lives had been changed forever. She was scared for Mark and how he would adapt to this sudden, drastic change to his lifestyle. She was scared for Steve – no matter how angry she might have been at him. He too had some major adjustments to make and she wondered if it might affect his career. Then she wondered how it could not. She was scared for herself and how she was going to break this news to her boys – and how they were going to react. They were good boys, but they had no experience around disabled people and she wondered if it would make them feel differently about Mark.

But most of all she was scared for Jesse. The rest of them still had each other – as they always did – but Jesse had no-one. He had struck off alone, believing that he was hated and reviled and she was terrified to think what effect that might have on his fragile confidence, born of a broken childhood. At times he came across as a little boy – and that was the image which stood out in her mind as she sat in her dimly lit lounge. Jesse standing there, so hurt and bewildered – already punishing himself for something that was in no way his fault. Jesse taking the unforgivable words that Steve had flung at him. Jesse disappearing without a trace, without a word – save for ensuring that Mark's aftercare was attended to. Jesse alone – God only knew where – and with no-one in the world to turn to.

She knew him too well to fear that he might do something stupid – he held life as the most precious of things. But, if something were to happen to him – an accident or mishap – would they even know? What if he were to die alone, believing that the people who loved him hated him? Believing – because of a few ill-chosen words, spoken in the heat of a dreadful moment – that he had no-one left on Earth who cared about him?

And that was when the tears came.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**I'm so sorry for the delay in updating; I can only put it down to being busy. Thanks for the continued reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twelve.

Nobody had been able to persuade Steve to go home. Kirk had tried, but his efforts were half-hearted at best. He had quickly come to know the detective well enough to realise that those efforts would have been in vain. But even he had drawn the line when Steve tried to insist on waiting at Mark's bedside. That simply wasn't an option.

The older Sloan's recovery had been hampered enough as it was. The upset, allegations and recriminations would only serve to harm rather than to heal. Mark had a lot of progress to make – and the sooner he started, the better.

Steve had reluctantly agreed with the young doctor's words, but that still had not been enough to convince him to leave the hospital. Yes, his dad needed to start building his support structure around him. Yes, he needed to stop worrying about anybody other than himself. But he also needed his loved ones around him. He needed the strength and support of his family and friends. He needed his son. And Steve was determined to be there for him.

He knew that he had made mistakes; knew that his treatment of Jesse had been unforgivable and, sitting alone in the doctors' lounge, his guilt began to weigh heavily on him. He had been shocked and hurt and frightened, but none of those were any excuse for what he had done. It was time for him to start making up for those mistakes.

Knowing that it was probably futile, but not knowing what else he could do without leaving the hospital, he headed for the doctors' lounge – where Kirk had kindly allowed him to recharge his phone. Once he had retrieved it, he tried calling both of Jesse's numbers again – but with the same predictable results.

The anger still simmered just below the surface – he realised that when he had to resist the urge to fling his cellphone across the room when he got Jesse's answer phone for a second time – but now the anger was aimed inwards. And even he knew that that was not a good thing. It could be as equally as destructive as all of the other anger he had harboured since the accident.

Taking a deep breath, he tried counting slowly to ten. He had only got as far as six when a soft knock at the door interrupted him.

"Hey." Cheryl's smile was gentle as she poked her head into the lounge. "You feel like some company?"

"What are you doing here?" His own greeting bordered on rude, but he was just too tired to care.

"Just wondering how you are." His partner didn't wait for an invite, but entered the lounge and helped herself to a coffee. "Wondering if you needed anything," she added, sounding deceptively casual.

Steve merely shook his head in response to her words. What he needed, nobody could give him.

"Any news?" Her question was deliberately vague, giving him the option to talk about whatever was weighing most heavily on his mind.

"No." Steve didn't take her up on the unspoken offer.

"No," she repeated, flatly. "Your dad's in here having just undergone major surgery. Your best friend is God-only-knows where – and don't tell me you don't care about that, because I spent half a day trying to track him down, at your request. And when I ask you if there's any news all you can tell me is 'no'?"

"My dad's resting, Jesse's still missing – and before you ask, Amanda's gone home. I'd hardly call any of that 'news'."

"Well, at least I know why you were sitting in here all by yourself," Cheryl retorted, growing irritated by his sardonic and uncommunicative attitude – she really did care about those people. And her partner. "Nobody else would be able to stomach your company right now."

"I thought you came here to try and make me feel better," Steve snapped, feeling mildly betrayed. He'd expected more support from his partner.

"No, I came here to make sure you weren't sitting around on your ugly butt feeling sorry for yourself."

That provoked a better reaction – a half-smile, still masked by pain, and a faint snort of laughter. "I'm not…" He shook his head as she raised one questioning eyebrow. "I'm trying not to," he amended. "But there's not a damned thing I can do."

"There's always something," Cheryl responded more gently, moving to sit next to him. "Have you made any progress in tracking Jesse down?"

Steve looked down at his cellphone. He was gripping it so tightly that his hand was starting to ache – and he realised that he still had the strong urge to throw it at something, as though it was the cause of all of his problems. But lashing out at the blameless wouldn't solve anything – he had learned that painful lesson once already. He loosened his death-grip on the phone and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Where have you looked so far?" Cheryl correctly interpreted his silence as a negative and sought some way to give him focus.

"Where have I looked?" Steve flashed her an irritated glance. "I haven't looked anywhere. I've been here, trying to look out for my dad."

"Dammit, Sloan, how did you ever make it to Lieutenant?" she cried, in utter exasperation. "You thought nothing of sending me round to Jesse's apartment. You're holding on to your cell like it's a lifeline. You've got connections. You've got friends. And you know as well as I do that you don't have to be out on the streets to be looking."

"Cheryl…" He tried to interrupt her tirade, but she was in full flow and was not about to be stopped.

"Use those connections, Steve," she continued. "Call in some favours. Jesse left in his car – that can be traced. He might use his cellphone, credit cards. Hell, there's a thousand ways you could at least get a clue as to where he might be."

"He's not officially a missing person," Steve answered, tightly – ashamed that he had been so lost in his own emotions that he hadn't done anything more than dial two numbers – both of which he knew would remain unanswered. "He's not a wanted felon. I don't have any reason to do any of those things."

"And Steve Sloan's never broken the rules before," she retorted, a smirk of triumph on her face – because she knew he couldn't possibly have a comeback for that one.

* * *

A toy stethoscope, boiling water and a fair amount of skill and patience – and Millie Logan was breathing with considerably more ease than when Jesse had first happened across her.

It looked grotesque. No matter how many times he performed the procedure – no matter how many lives it saved – there would always be something unnatural and vaguely nauseating about the sight of an intubated person. When that person was a small child – and the tube was jerry rigged and makeshift to say the least – it was about a thousand times worse.

Focussing only on her small form, Jesse shut out everything else that was going on around him. Even the sounds of the continuing storm barely distracted him. He had to monitor Millie constantly, to ensure that she continued to breathe; that the tube didn't become blocked or congested in any way; that he had done the job properly. He kept one surprisingly steady hand on her forehead – and it wasn't lost on him that he might have looked like a Minister offering a prayer for some unfortunate soul. Because he _was _praying. He was praying to every deity he could think of, regardless that he wasn't exactly a man of faith. He was praying so hard – offering everything he had, including his soul – he failed to hear Sarah's hesitant voice calling his name. He needed to succeed. Another failure would surely destroy him.

Then he heard a gasp and his introspective paralysis was broken. He looked up to see Sarah's horrified gaze – her eyes fixed firmly on her daughter.

"Oh God…" Her cry of horror was barely audible, but Jesse had been expecting such a reaction. It was a shocking sight to behold.

"It's okay, Sarah." From his crouched position, he caught hold of her hand. "It's alright, she's breathing easier now." Sarah's hand tightened on his – and he belatedly recalled that she had been calling his name. "Sarah, you need to stay focussed." He used his body to block her view of her daughter. "You were calling me. What's happened?"

Sarah's eyes eventually met his and they contained a wealth of hurt. He could see into her heart through those deep brown eyes. She was already mourning for Millie.

Jesse eased the hand that still held his down towards her daughter. Freeing himself from her grasp, he gently laid her palm against her child's cheek – letting her feel the life that flowed through it. He sensed that she needed the contact. Millie's laboured breathing whistled through the tube in her throat, but it was another indication that life still dwelt in her still body.

"She's fighting, Sarah," he whispered. "If we can get her to a hospital then she'll be just fine."

Sarah had been drowning in the sight of her youngest child, taking in every detail of her beloved face, wincing with each pained breath that was drawn and wondering if each was to be her last. Jesse's words jerked her back to reality.

"We've done as much as we can," she murmured, still gently stroking her daughter's flushed cheek. "There's nothing left. If it's not enough…" Her eyes were lost in Millie's face and there was a sob in her voice.

"Have you put the tracks down?" Jesse asked softly.

"Yes, but…" Desperate brown eyes locked with blue.

"Then let's go," Jesse said, before she could voice her fears and give credence to his own insecurities.

* * *

With Cheryl's help, Steve was finally starting to try and focus on something positive – instead of continually dwelling on all that had gone wrong and what still could. The two detectives sat at a table in the doctors' lounge and discussed their somewhat limited options as to how they might track down Jesse.

"He's been gone for less than two days," Cheryl pointed out. "I'm guessing he had his wallet with him, but the chances are that he hasn't had to use a credit card yet. I'll still call the company and have them put an alert on it. At the very least, it'll give us…" She trailed off as a weary smile crossed her partner's face. "What?"

"I thought you were going to suggest blocking it." There was the merest trace of mirth in his eyes. "I'd have loved to have seen his face…"

"You mean cut him off from his cash so that he has to come home?" Wry amusement was apparent in her tone. "You know, maybe that's not such a bad idea."

"Cheryl!"

"Nah, I'd need a court order for that," she mused – ignoring his outraged response. "Unless of course, I was to report it stolen…"

"And have him arrested?" Steve spluttered, hardly believing what he was hearing.

"At least then we'd know exactly where he was. And that he wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry." Cheryl glanced sidelong at him. "Hey, do you have a better idea?" She deliberately injected a note of challenge into her voice.

"I'm having a hard time coming up with a _worse _idea," he retorted. He looked over at her. Then he looked again more closely and saw the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. He'd been had.

"Gotcha," his partner smirked, triumphantly.

Steve couldn't keep the smile off his face. He had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. A wry chuckle escaped his lips.

"You know, I can't believe you just did that." He shook his head, his mirth apparent by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Arrested for credit card theft. Jesus."

Cheryl didn't immediately answer – she was just glad that her ploy had worked. Steve needed some light relief – something to smile about in the midst of all the trauma. And it really felt good to hear him laugh again.

Their levity was, of necessity, sort lived. While Cheryl might have joked about having Jesse arrested the moment he tried to use a credit card, it was – thus far – the best option that they had come up with.

"What about his car?" Cheryl asked. "It's distinctive enough and we know the plate. Let's just have all units be on the lookout for it."

"We don't even know if he's still in California," Steve shot back, his exasperation growing. "And we can hardly put out an APB to neighbouring states. I can just imagine how Newman would react to that one."

"Have you tried his family?" Cheryl didn't argue the point – she too didn't want to risk facing that particular wrath of their Captain. "Maybe he went home."

"This is his home." As soon as he said the words, Steve was forced to wonder if they were still true. He ruthlessly suppressed the thought – they would sort this out. They had to. "His mom's in Illinois; his dad could be anywhere. But trust me, he wouldn't go running to either of them."

"Steve, they've got to be worth a try. Jesse isn't exactly thinking rationally right now." She raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a number for either of them?"

"No." It was Steve's turn to give up on the argument. Given Jesse's current emotional state, there was no telling where he might end up. "But I guess he must have. I know his dad gave him a number… You know, for emergencies."

"But he never passed it on to you." It wasn't a question – his tone had provided the answer.

When Steve just shook his head helplessly, Cheryl's heart went out to him. He was so clearly torn – wanting to find out what had become of Jesse, but needing to stay close to his father.

Then she tried to summon a smile, as an idea came to her. It wasn't the most inspired idea – but it might yet get them some answers.

* * *

The front door shutting jerked Amanda awake, even though she had no conscious recollection of having fallen asleep. Her eyes stung and her heart ached – and she had no trouble in recalling the sadness that had chased her into her restless slumber.

The lounge was in darkness – she had never intended to fall asleep on the couch – and she could hear muted sounds that told her that whoever had awoken her was doing their best to avoid disturbing her. She automatically knew who that someone was.

"Ron?" she called and her voice was so weak, so hesitant that – for a brief moment – she didn't even recognise it as her own.

Then the lounge door swung open and she was left wincing against the sudden illumination. A tall, broad figure was silhouetted in the doorway.

"Amanda? What are you doing sitting here without any lights on?"

"Oh Ron!" His voice was a blessed balm to her tattered soul and the tears – the last of which she'd thought she had shed – returned with a vengeance. "Ron…" she sobbed.

The agent crossed swiftly to the couch and gathered her into his arms. He didn't immediately ask what was wrong. Initially, he was content just to hold her, to murmur soothing words, to be there for her. Then, when she had finally calmed enough to talk, she brokenly related what had happened to Mark while he had been away.

"Sweetheart…"

Ron breathed the endearment into her hair as he continued to hold her close – and she almost lost control all over again. Now that he was with her, she didn't feel quite so lost and she willingly collapsed into his embrace. And she let him be her strength – at least for a little while.

Long moments passed, but eventually Amanda sniffed and forced herself to pull away from the hug that she might otherwise have got lost in forever. A new worry was beginning to plague her.

"Will you… Will you help me?" she asked, glancing hesitantly up at him.

"Of course I will." His response was unconditional and Amanda felt a smile touch her lips for what felt like the first time in days.

Then it was instantly gone.

"The boys," she explained, sadly. "I need to tell them… I couldn't… I never told them about Mark… About…"

"About his disability." Ron tightened his embrace as she stiffened at his choice of words. "Amanda, if you can't accept it for what it is then how can you expect them to?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and infinitely soothing. "And do you know something else? They're good boys, Amanda. I think they might just surprise you."

"No, they won't. It's too much to ask of them." The young woman's voice was muffled and drowsy as she snuggled more closely to her lover. She felt so warm, so safe – and there was now somebody at her side, helping her to carry her burden.

"Don't say that, Amanda." Ron's mild admonishment cut through the cocoon of warmth that she had lost herself in. "At least give the boys a chance. Talk to them first."

It took Amanda a moment to comprehend what he'd been referring to – she had been, again, on the verge of slumber. But then she recalled the two boys who slept so innocently above her – and the news that she had to impart to them.

"We'll tell them together." It was uncanny how often that seemed to happen: Ron speaking as though he was reading her mind. "And then we'll all go to the hospital and see him together."

"Ron…" Amanda was having a hard time seeing Mark all by herself; let alone having to cope with her sons' reactions. "I don't think…"

"Sshh." The agent silenced her with a kiss. "We'll get through this." He cupped Amanda's chin in his hand and tilted her head up to look at him. "Not just CJ and Dion, not even just you and me but Steve and Mark too. But we need to be there; to be facing this; to be positive because, right now, I'm guessing all that anyone can see is the negative."

"But what about Jesse?" Hurt had stabbed at her heart at the omission, by Ron, of his name and it must have been apparent in either her tone or her eyes.

"I'm sorry, honey." He pulled her closer still. "I just assumed that Jesse was Mark's doctor…"

"He was! He was!" Tears again soaked her cheeks. "But Steve blamed him and then he hit him and now he's gone…" A sob wracked her body. "He's gone and he's hurting and… and…"

"And Amanda you've got to stop." Reluctantly, Ron eased her away from him. "You have to stop because you have your own wonderful family to take care of. You have the two most precious boys in the world. You should worry about taking care of them. You can't take on the problems of everybody else."

"I'm not talking about 'everybody else'," she spat back, with venom in her voice. All memories of the comfort he'd brought were forgotten at – what she saw as – his callousness. "I'm talking about Jesse."

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Continued thanks to my faithful reviewers. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirteen.

Steve had a key to Jesse's apartment, just as Cheryl had suspected he would. They were best friends – she refused to think of that sentiment in the past tense, in spite of what might have happened. She had seen them interact together too many times to think of them in any other way. And, as Jesse so often used the beach house as his second home – simply walking in as though he owned the place – so she figured that the same would apply to the doctor's apartment.

With very little resistance – and without revealing her plans, lest they come to nought – Cheryl had procured that key from Steve. And so, instead of having to try to beat down the stubborn door, she quietly let herself in through it.

Though it was now late in the evening, she still had a very definite plan in mind: she wanted to have a look around Jesse's apartment – to see if there was any clue as to where he might have gone.

After that, she intended to find every contact that Jesse Travis had and get in touch with each and every one of them – though that task would most probably have to wait until morning.

Nonetheless, even if none of his contacts were willing to admit to having seen or heard from him, she was good at her job and was confident that she would detect any lie, even over the phone. And if any of those contacts were unwilling to speak to her, then she was not above questioning them in person – or at least getting someone else to do that questioning on her behalf; a lot of people owed both her and Steve a lot of favours and she was not beyond calling all of them in. It was surprising how the sight of a police badge could loosen the tightest of tongues.

As she closed the door behind her, she frowned in the direction of Jesse's answer phone. The red light was flashing merrily, indicating a multitude of messages captured on its tape. At first, she was reluctant to replay it – she knew that a whole bunch of those messages were from his friends and she had no wish to intrude on the private emotions they had all so recently shared. But nor could she risk missing that one potentially vital message – the one that might actually give them a clue to his whereabouts – and so, with some reluctance, she hit the playback button.

"_Jesse, if you're there, pick up the phone…"_

Cheryl phased out the sound of Amanda's voice and let her gaze wander slowly around the apartment. It didn't look in any way abandoned; didn't look as though someone had decided to pack up and leave. In fact, it looked plain ordinary. There was the clutter of everyday life, unwashed dishes and an unmade bed. But it looked – to her investigative, analytical eyes – that the occupant had merely stepped out for a while. And that spoke volumes to her about Jesse's state of mind.

His flight was instinctive and unplanned. And he had undoubtedly thought less than a few hours ahead – even if he had thought ahead at all. And that provided her greatest hope yet.

His leaving couldn't be permanent – not when he had left so much unfinished business behind. He would have to at least call someone to tie up a thousand or so loose ends.

If it hadn't been such a late hour, then Cheryl would have spoken again to the landlady and asked questions about bonds and rent and the terms of his tenancy. What would she do with the doctor's possessions should he fail to return? How long would she keep the apartment open for him? What would she do with his bond; should she let the apartment go? What were the legalities of such a situation?

But such questions would have to wait – and she silently hoped that she was premature in even wondering such things. She truly hoped to have the matter resolved before any of those points became valid.

She kept her ears attuned to the replaying messages, even as her mind wandered and her eyes roved around the small lounge area. They came to rest back on the phone – and more importantly on the table upon which it sat. There was no address book by the machine, but there was a drawer beneath it.

Cheryl paused for only the briefest moment. Even by replaying the answer phone she had initiated an illegal search, but she wasn't seeking evidence; wasn't looking for something that would warrant arrest or stand up in court. It was only habit that gave her cause to falter.

She opened the drawer of the telephone table and a slow smile spread across her face at the sight that met her eyes. In these days of high technology, she had feared that she would find nothing. So many people now kept contacts solely on mobile phones, or laptops, or personal planners. There was no longer any need to write things down.

But it appeared that Jesse had been something of a traditionalist – either that, or he didn't entirely trust said technology – because there, sitting on top a sheaf of papers, was a leather bound address book.

It was too late to start making phone calls – and so, without a qualm, Cheryl slid the book into her pocket. It was unlikely that Jesse would return in time to miss it and she wanted to start making those calls the moment the hour could be considered 'reasonable'.

Finally feeling as though they were making even miniscule progress, Cheryl called it a night and went home.

* * *

If Jesse had had any way of knowing that so many people were concerned about him – were actually plotting ways in which to find him – then he would have been unable to even spare a reciprocal thought. His entire concentration was focused on Millie and the need to keep her as still as possible when Sarah fired the engine of the Winnebago to life.

The entire situation had presented him with something of a dilemma. When Sarah told him that they were as ready as they'd ever be, he'd wanted to go out and see for himself: to ensure that the tracks were laid out straight; that the 'bridge' they had built was stable enough to shore up those tracks; that the vehicle was lined up correctly before they began their treacherous journey.

But he didn't dare leave his young patient's side. Traversing the washed out section of road was going to be hazardous and bumpy. And, if they didn't make it across, it would be downright dangerous for Millie. Any sudden, violent change in direction might dislodge the tube or, worse still, injure her internally.

The engine idled long enough for Jesse to begin to worry that some other setback had befallen them. Then he glanced up and saw Sarah staring back at him from the driver's seat. She offered him what must have been intended as a reassuring smile but, in truth, she looked even more terrified than he felt.

He returned at least a semblance of her smile – and then the Winnebago slowly began inching forwards.

Jesse had the briefest fraction of a second to wonder where Joey was, before his own mind rudely thrust the answer to that question to him. The storm still raged outside, darkness had fallen upon them, and they were about to embark on a – albeit short – journey that would be treacherous in the most ideal of conditions.

Their conditions couldn't possibly have been any further removed from ideal and Jesse suddenly knew, without a doubt, that Joey – nine years old, soaked to his skin and scared to death – was out in the storm, trying to guide his mother across their makeshift tracks. It was almost enough to tear him away from Millie's side. But, in the end, it was also exactly the thing that made him tighten his hold on the ailing child.

It crossed his mind that should they fail, then all hope was not yet lost. He vaguely remembered Sarah saying that the hospital was just a few miles away. Closing his eyes in the briefest of prayers, he vowed that – should they fail – he would still get Millie to the hospital, even if he had to carry her every step of the way.

Then the Winnebago lurched slightly and his eyes shot open. He didn't look towards the front; didn't want to see Sarah's eyes telling him that they had failed barely before they'd even started. He didn't even look towards the door – afraid that he'd see Joey, distraught and devastated at having sacrificed so much and it, ultimately, having been for nothing.

Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on Millie; watching closely as she drew in every laboured breath and wondering how he could possibly support her head enough to keep the tube in place, should he be forced to carry her across the treacherous terrain.

He moved to kneel by Millie's head. The first time that the van lurched, he thought that his makeshift tube was going to be dislodged. The second time, he took hold of her head in order to keep her as still as possible. Doubts and uncertainty flooded his mind. What if the damage was already done? What if his well intentioned efforts had caused internal injuries that he had no way of detecting? Her chest still shallowly rose and fell and there was no blood being dispelled from his makeshift tube – but that was by no means an indication that everything was alright. The tube hadn't been properly sterilised, the risk of infection was still very real. And the way that the van was lurching hesitantly forwards, the tube itself – designed to save her life – might still slip and cause unimaginable damage to her trachea.

He wanted to yell at Sarah, to tell her to step on it – to get them across that damned washout and to safety. But then a flash of lightning illuminated the pallid face beneath him and he was left cursing his own insensitivity.

Sarah was driving in conditions that would have been impossible at the best of times: trying to cross a washed out road, that was little more than a dirt track with a storm raging around her and being guided only by her nine year old son, for whom she must have been terrified. How could she watch him and the road at the same time? How could she offer him words of reassurance when the raging storm seemed to drown out your very thoughts? And how could she concentrate on any of these things when her daughter was dying behind her?

"Jesse!"

Sarah's screaming his name coincided with the most violent shift of the Winnebago so far. Jesse's heart sank and horror twisted his stomach. Instinctively, his hands had tightened around Millie's head – and she had barely even moved as the van had shifted so drastically. But he knew that his efforts had been in vain. They had lost the track. They had failed.

"We're clear!"

Her words were almost unbelievable and he wasted no time. If they were to be afforded a miracle, then who was he to question it?

"Keep going Sarah!" His eyes had never strayed from Millie's face. "Drive, Sarah. Don't stop for anything. Just drive."

Scant seconds later, he was forced to curse the idiocy of his words when he felt the Winnebago slow to less than a crawl. He opened his mouth to admonish her, but then saw a dishevelled figure scrambling up the steps.

"Joey…" he breathed – and guilt, once again, took precedence of his emotions. How could he possibly have forgotten that brave little boy?

The child barely spared him a glance. He raced towards the front of the van, yelling at his mom to get them out of there.

Jesse could only hold Millie's head and pray that their efforts wouldn't prove to be in vain.

The van lurched again – and then picked up speed. They were, Sarah excitedly told him, less than fifteen minutes away from town.

* * *

Later, Jesse could recall nothing of the drive across the still rough terrain. He was unaware of the continually raging storm; of the motion of the van; of both Sarah and Joey. He was focussed solely on the small form before him.

He kept his grip on Millie's head, keeping her as still as possible and watching as she continued to draw miniscule amounts of air through his makeshift tube and into her straining lungs. He was waiting for the moment when the effort would not be enough, when her soft exhalation proved to be her last – and he was ready to act the moment that it happened; to breathe for her if that's what it took. Because he couldn't contemplate failing. Not after they had been through so much and not when they were so tantalisingly close to safety.

And concentrating on Millie also meant that he didn't have the time to think about what would happen should they hit another washout.

It felt as though the journey lasted hours, but when the Winnebago finally came to a halt and Sarah scrambled back to where he crouched, he looked up in surprise. She didn't need to say anything. Her desperation and urgency spoke volumes and he wordlessly scooped the limp body into his arms.

Joey had already opened the door and Jesse hugged Millie closer as he stepped out into the driving rain – trying to protect her as much as he possibly could. They were both still soaked through within mere seconds. He was tempted to break into a run, but his need for caution outweighed his need for haste. He could not afford to stumble and drop the child – or even jar her too much, for fear of dislodging her precious tube.

With Joey and Sarah flanking him on either side, he burst through the Emergency Room doors. Their dramatic entrance had all heads turning in their direction and Jesse began to talk even as he ploughed onwards; his familiarity with the workings of an ER guiding him straight towards an exam room.

"She's in anaphylactic shock – cause unknown. I've established an airway, but I don't know how long that's gonna last." There was a doctor in front of him trying to take the child, but Jesse hung stubbornly on. "I need an epinephrine kit."

"There's one on the way," the anonymous doctor told him. "Let me take her. Come on, you've done great, but let me take over. Come on, please."

But before Jesse could consciously make a decision whether or not to do that, they were in the exam room and he gently laid Millie onto the table. Sudden bustle forced him backwards and he could only stand and watch as a flurry of activity completely obscured the little girl from him. He took a step forwards, intending to help; to assist; to do anything but stand idly by and watch – but a firm hand gripped his arm.

"Sir, you need to wait outside. Let the doctors do their job."

Jesse blinked at the nurse who'd spoken and then looked down at her hand that still held his arm.

"I…" _I am a doctor. _But it wasn't true. He'd lost that and everything that went with it when he'd failed Mark so unforgivably. The nurse was right – he didn't belong in there. As much as he cared about Millie, as much as he wanted to help, he had to stand aside and leave her care to those who were qualified to provide it. "I'm sorry," he murmured. And he allowed her to manoeuvre him back out into the ER.

"Jesse?"

Sarah's voice assailed him a mere moment later and she surged towards him, desperation on her features.

"She…" Jesse blinked. He should have had more to tell her; should have been able to give her the assurances that she so obviously needed. But he couldn't. He'd been forced aside. "She's in the best of care," he murmured. And he turned his eyes back towards the door that he'd been so rudely thrust out of.

It was only minutes later that a woman in a white coat approached them. She was, Jesse was relieved to note, smiling.

"Mrs Logan?" Her calm and assured voice overrode the clamour of the Emergency Room.

"Y… yes..?" Sudden fear made Sarah hesitant.

"I'm Doctor Grayson and I'm sure you're eager to know that your daughter is going to be just fine."

"Oh, thank God… Thank God…"

She was on the verge of collapse and, when she grasped hold of Jesse for support, he put his arm around her and let her fall against him.

"Actually," Doctor Grayson said, switching her attention. "You should thank the young man standing next to you." Then she addressed him fully: "You must have some medical background to be able to intubate like that – and in those circumstances."

"I…" Jesse swallowed hard – this was all too much for him. He'd been driven from his home – chased by a nightmare that he could never awaken from; then he had happened across this unfortunate family and had done only what instinct had driven him to do; he was exhausted, soaked to the skin and hadn't eaten anything more substantial than a sandwich in days. The smallest sound of distress escaped his lips and then his legs gave way on him. Only Doctor Grayson's timely intervention prevented both him and Sarah from landing in a heap on the ground.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**Sincere thanks for the wonderful reviews. It's so good to know that this story is still being enjoyed by so many. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Fourteen.

Steve jerked suddenly awake as his cellphone vibrated in his front pocket. He respected hospital rules enough to switch the device to 'silent' mode – but he could not switch it off completely.

His eyes shot open and he stretched his legs out; one hand automatically going towards the pocket which housed his phone.

A moment later, he was struggling for equilibrium as he almost tipped to the floor – and wondered where the hell he was.

It caught up to him a split-second later: the hospital; the doctors' lounge; the uncomfortable couch he must have somehow drifted to sleep on. And the phone that now buzzed in his hand – the caller ID helpfully informing him that it was Cheryl who called.

"What?" He answered the phone with little more than a croak, rubbing at his eyes in a bid to rid them from the remnants of sleep. His eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. It was barely eight am.

He hauled himself upright and looked towards the door. There was no sign of life from outside. His dad must have spent a quiet, eventless night – or surely someone would have fetched him.

But he still cursed himself for falling asleep.

Then Cheryl's voice barked in his ear: _"So what do you want to do about it?"_

Steve shook his head – regardless of the fact that his partner couldn't even see him. He hadn't heard a word she'd said – not that he'd ever admit such a thing to her. But his most recent encounter with his dad was dominating his every thought – and he needed to make things right. He had to find Jesse.

Everything else could wait.

"Do what you need to do," he growled into his phone. And then he took it away from his ear.

"_But I think I've found…"_

The rest of the words were lost to him as he ended the call and went to try and visit his father.

He'd only made it about a dozen steps down the corridor when his cellphone rang again. He checked the caller ID: _Cheryl._

With a heavy sigh, he answered the call.

"What can be so important?" he demanded. In spite of having seemingly slept, he didn't feel at all rested.

"_I think I might've found Jesse."_ Her voice was calm – not at all the voice of someone dropping a bombshell such as she just had.

"What?" Steve stopped dead in his tracks. "How?"

"_I'm not sure who; but someone put a marker on his car."_

"What?!" Steve repeated, more loudly – causing a passing Orderly to pause and glare at him. He barely even noticed.

He might be in some serious trouble here: no matter what the circumstances, his Captain was strictly by the book when it came to using police resources for personal reasons – Steve had spelled it out to Cheryl once already. The last thing he needed was to be worrying about work – on top of everything else.

"_Steve, it was all done on the QT. No APB; no wants; no warrants." _Cheryl's bemused voice derailed his paranoid train of thought. _"It was just a flag on his car – citing him as a 'person of interest' to a couple of detectives in the LAPD. If he got stopped for any reason, it was a courtesy contact to you or me."_

Relief flooded through Steve – and it was coupled with exhaustion, worry over his dad and about a thousand other concerns which all made him forget the very start of this conversation.

He paused to wonder why he hadn't thought of doing the exact same thing for himself. It was kind of underhand, but…

"Nice idea, Cheryl," he murmured. He futilely shook his head again; the flaw in this plan seemingly becoming obvious to him: "But, although Jesse might drive what looks like a sports car, he's hardly the type to go NASCAR."

"_That may well be." _Cheryl dropped her final bomb – and it was nuclear in its impact: _"But somebody just ran his plates."_

* * *

Special Agent Ron Wagner barely slept at all that night. Guilt gnawed at him – even though Amanda had long since forgiven him for his callous sounding words. He was having a much harder time forgiving himself.

He worked for the FBI – and yet had allowed himself to jump to a conclusion, even though his lover was emotionally overwrought and unbearably distressed.

It had been a wholly wrong conclusion to jump to.

As he lay awake – even as Amanda drifted off to sleep, her tears finally stemmed – he sought some way to make things up to her. Though it would have been a valid argument that he'd done nothing wrong, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed something. If not in her actual words – then something in her tone, in her inflections, in her very demeanour.

Ron loved Amanda and believed that he knew her as much as any one person could know another. And yet he had still hurt her.

Blameless or not, the fact remained: he was responsible for the last tears she'd shed before finally falling asleep, kissing him softly and murmuring words of love before she drifted away.

And the guilt started to eat at him.

He lay with her – content to just hold her – long into the night, before gently easing away from her and slipping out of their bed. He had a very important call to make.

There was a telephone by the bed but – not knowing why he felt the need for such duplicity – he didn't want Amanda to, even subconsciously, overhear his call. Once the call was placed, he lay awake fretting that his superiors might stumble across what he'd done – or, more importantly, why he'd done it.

Though it was a minor request he'd made – and he did have a certain degree of discretion – the FBI didn't take kindly to misuse of their many, many resources.

But he'd done what he'd done and would never regret it; even if it turned out to be a complete waste of time.

Whatever the outcome, he'd tried –and maybe soon, somewhere, a phone would ring.

If it did, then they would deal with it. Any call should be directed either to Steve Sloan or his partner – but, for a number of reasons, it might just end up back in his own lap.

But, whoever took the call, it would mean only one thing: Jesse Travis had somehow come to the attention of somebody in Law Enforcement.

The reasons for such a thing happening were unimaginable to him – but, in his career, he'd often seen beyond the unimaginable.

So he had simply done what he could.

But, as he watched Amanda toss and turn in her sleep, he wondered if it would be enough.

* * *

For Steve, the moment stood frozen in time. He'd heard Cheryl's words – in fact, his heart soared as they finally sunk in. But, swift on the heels of his elation, came a frustrating sense of helplessness.

He'd heard the news he'd been longing to hear – but now he didn't know what to do with it. His first instinct was to tell Cheryl to follow it up – but then every angry word, every admonishment flung at him by both Amanda and himself, was thrust rudely back into the front of his mind.

Finding Jesse was something that _he_ had to do. He was the only one who could make things right – and he was in no way prepared to even ask anyone else to undertake the task.

He was the only one who could bring Jesse home.

But how was he supposed to do that when his dad was still lying gravely ill in a hospital bed? He wouldn't – _couldn't_ – leave his dad's side.

Steve sighed and ran his free hand through his hair. He honestly didn't know what to do.

"_Steve?"_

Cheryl's voice cut through his thoughts – and he again became aware of his cellphone, now clammy against his cheek.

"Yeah... yeah..." he sighed. "Uh..." He scrubbed his fingers across his eyes. He knew he needed to be doing something – to be taking steps towards righting the wrong he had caused. But he needed to be with his father as well.

Torn didn't even come close to describing how he was feeling.

He carried on walking as he strove to find his focus. Mentally reviewing everything Cheryl had already told him, he somehow found his professional persona again.

"So, Jesse's plates have been flagged up. What happened? Was..?" He had to force the next words out. "Was he in an accident?"

"_I don't know."_ Cheryl wished she could have offered more reassurance. _"I got a call from a deputy in Blackbrook, Oregon – a town a few miles south of Eugene. His car was towed when it was found abandoned..."_

"So we don't actually know where he is!" Steve expostulated, angrily. "It's not much use just knowing where..."

"_Steve!" _Cheryl cut in with more than a hint of exasperation. _"The deputy called because the car was flagged – and they matched the registration to the licence they found on a young stranger admitted to a hospital in Blackbrook."_

"Admitted to hospital?" Steve felt almost physically sick as he repeated those words.

"_That's all I know, Steve. It's all the deputy knew."_ Steve almost heard her shrug. _"But I got the number of the local Sheriff – and the number of the hospital."_

"Thanks," Steve murmured. Then he jammed the phone in the crook between his neck and his shoulder and dragged out his notebook, swiftly taking down the numbers Cheryl gave him.

"_I didn't call either number. I thought I should tell you first. Do you want me to..?"_

"No," Steve swiftly cut her off. She'd done enough already. She'd done more than enough. "I'll take care of it."

Then he exited an elevator he had no memory of entering – and suddenly found himself outside his dad's room.

* * *

Mark had awoken once during the night. There was no clock on his nightstand but, from the level of hush in the corridors – and the light filtering in through half-open blinds – he judged it to be the very early hours: maybe 4 or 5am.

He wasn't perturbed – and was, in fact, thankful – to find himself alone. It gave him some time to think. And to try and make some sense of everything that had happened.

There was something unique about that hour of the morning; something almost magical as night warred against day and the colour of the sky was an utterly indescribable shade of blue.

It was the perfect time for introspection.

He tried to think about Steve and Jesse; of the little he'd learnt and the current status quo between them. He tried to rationalise and seek a solution for a problem he only knew the barest details of. He tried to be Mark Sloan: solver of mysteries; catcher of crooks; provider of happy endings...

But, inevitably, his eyes strayed towards his amputated limb – and were then forced to look quickly away. He _knew_ it was only his mind telling him that the fingers were still there; _knew_ it was pointless trying to curl his hand into a fist. But his mind did it anyway.

Mark clamped down hard on his emotions. He'd dealt with this a hundred times or more – and with a hundred different patients.

He'd offered them all the same advice: talk. Just talk.

It didn't matter who they talked to: be it a psychiatrist or therapist; doctor or nurse; close friend or immediate family.

Talking was a major step on the road to recovery – and yet he'd shied away from every option made available to him. But now, he looked down at his bandaged arm and deliberately didn't flinch away.

'_That which doesn't kill me makes me stronger_,' he silently intoned.

But he was still staring at the stump of his arm – and a nagging, cynical voice whispered in the back of his mind: _'How are you stronger?'_

Mark smiled benignly as his gaze again returned to the window. Pink and red and gold were beating back the darkness as the sun rose on a new day – and he silently replied to the negative voice in his head:

'_I still have so much to give, so much to teach – and so many to help._' He remembered desperate hours trapped in his car – feeling every last vestige of hope trickling away. Three more words silenced the other voice completely:_ 'I'm not dead.'_

* * *

Jesse started awake – jerked out of sleep by a nightmare that faded even as he rolled over. But he didn't need to remember the nightmare to know of its content. His dreams were going to be the same for a long time to come.

Then he blinked and wondered for a moment where he was.

His clothes were gone, replaced by a standard hospital gown and there was a plastic tag around his wrist – confirming that he was not only in a hospital, but he had also been officially admitted. That observation was only reinforced when he belatedly noticed an IV drip snaking into the back of his right hand.

Concerned and confused, his eyes drifted upwards – and then easily deciphered the words on the bag connected to his IV drip. It was a standard solution – one he'd used countless times to replace lost fluids and nutrients.

Frowning, he sought out a memory to explain away his situation – but all his mind could conjure up was the image of Mark lying on the operating table; of Steve practically screaming in his face.

Feeling panic begin to take a faint hold, Jesse eased himself further up on the bed. And that was when he realised he wasn't even in Community General. The room was unfamiliar – the decor all wrong, for one thing. And from his limited view of the window, the skyline was almost alien to him: dark green treetops swaying against the backdrop of an angry sky.

Then it hit him: the storm; abandoning his car; the Winnebago; Millie!

His last memory was of a doctor telling him that the little girl was going to be alright – _wasn't it?_

Or was it just his mind wishing that he hadn't failed again.

It didn't matter. Whatever he'd done, it still couldn't atone for what had gone before.

His mind was thrust rudely back to the last time he'd seen Mark: of looking in through the window of a recovery room; of seeing his bandaged stump; of whispering a wholly inadequate apology.

Again, he ached to know how Mark now fared. And, again, he had no means of accessing the information he so craved.

Feeling lost and alone, Jesse slid back down the bed. He didn't know where he was; wasn't sure what had happened to him – and he was loathe to press the 'call' button because he wasn't even certain of what time it was.

His eyes drifted to the window again and he tried to find the answer to his last question within the turbulent sky. It yielded nothing – except that it wasn't full dark. But the roiling clouds might have been heralding dawn or dusk, or any hour in between.

He supposed that his watch had been taken along with his clothes and he took a moment to wonder where his possessions were. Then he wondered as to his chances of finding them – and maybe somehow slipping out of the hospital.

Lying alone in the silent room was in danger of sending his thoughts spiralling back into some very dark places.

He fingered the cannula in the back of his hand – knowing how _he'd_ feel if a patient did to him what he was considering. Then he sucked in a breath and forcibly reminded himself that he didn't _have_ any patients any more. He'd handed over the care of his last one...

Tears threatened and even memories of what had transpired with Millie were totally forgotten, as he was dragged back in time:

_The head wound was nasty, but not life-threatening. It could wait. The chest wound could not – and a second surgeon dedicated his attention to checking for organ damage and clamping internal bleeds. Jesse focussed solely on the arm: the crushed bone and severed flesh; torn sinew and lacerated muscle... _

But just before the memory could descend completely into a nightmare, Jesse was jerked back to the present when his hospital room door opened.

* * *

Steve stood outside his dad's room, looking in. As inopportune as it might seem, he let a wry smile touch his lips.

Everything he'd wanted to happen was beginning to come together – but he'd never spared a single thought as to how he might put himself in two places at once.

He'd prayed for his dad – and now everything anybody told him only indicated that Mark's prognosis was optimistic and positive. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kirk, but he knew a lot of the hospital staff and hadn't been shy at seeking out second, third – and maybe even up to tenth – opinions...

He'd also prayed for Jesse – or, more accurately, for the chance to make things right with Jesse. It might be considered selfish by some, but Steve couldn't help how his mind worked.

He needed to apologise to his best friend. He needed Jesse to understand and forgive him – and, ultimately, come back to where he belonged. He needed them all to be together; to be battling through this like they'd battled through so much before: Amanda almost murdered in her own home; Jesse in jail; Mark on Death Row; and he, himself, almost fatally shot.

And, after everything he'd said and done, he'd argued and pleaded and – ultimately – insisted that he be the one to bring Jesse home; to offer his heartfelt apology face-to-face; to draw on their years of friendship and make everything right again.

Now, though, it was morning – and his dad had always been a habitually early riser. Just because he was hurt couldn't change the habits of a lifetime.

And that presented him with his current dilemma:

Jesse was in... Blackfoot..? Blackbrook..? Black... something. Steve pinched at the bridge of his nose, cursing his inability to remember the details – not cutting himself any slack that, at the time, he'd been in complete overload.

But, in truth, the name of the town didn't matter. Somewhere just south of Eugene mattered. Southern Oregon mattered.

Jesse was almost half a day's drive away – and that meant another half day's drive back. Plus whatever time it took to right all the wrongs he had done.

It all added up to over twenty-four hours away from his father.

And that simply was not an option.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**I know it's been a long time since the last update and I apologise for that. I've had a hellish couple of weeks where writing time has been minimal and inspiration almost non-existent. I hope that future updates won't take so long, but I can't make any promises.**

**I also want to say that it makes me sad when a person only leaves a review to complain about the lack of an update – fourteen chapters without a word, but two weeks without an update and I'M the one being unfair?**

**This story WILL be finished – but please accept that, unfortunately, sometimes Real Life is going to get in the way.**

**Thank you.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Fifteen.

A young nurse poked her head into Jesse's room and, not picking up on his sombre mood, fixed him with a beaming smile.

"Oh, you're awake!" She said, with overenthusiastic brightness. "I'll let the doctor know." She paused on the way back out: "You know, you're quite the celebrity around here. There're people queuing up to visit."

Jesse felt the strangest mix of emotions wash over him. Part of it was elation: if he was considered a local 'celebrity' then surely he must have saved Millie's life. But with it came fear: what would they think – those people 'queuing up to visit' – when they found out what he'd done; what he was running from.

But, overriding it all was his intrinsic need to get away. He'd only stopped to be a Good Samaritan; had only done what any other self-respecting American would have done (albeit with the benefit of medical training). He wasn't looking for glory, accolades or headlines.

He just wanted to go north until he ran out of land and he resolved to tell the doctor that; to plead with her to let him quietly slip away. After all, surely someone owed him something for what he had done.

A moment later, the door opened and the doctor stepped in. She had kind eyes and a tired smiled – and wore fatigue around her like only an ER doctor could.

Jesse felt guilty for not being able to remember her name. This new guilt wormed its way into his heart and only served to add to his inadequacies.

Sickened, he tried to slither more deeply into the bed.

The doctor seemed to notice his discomfort and her assured steps faltered. Then she took a breath and smiled.

"Doctor Travis, I'm Doctor Grayson. How...?"

"No. Not Doctor Tr..." He gasped, unable to even complete his own name. When was the last time he'd been called Doctor Travis? A phone call, a page, a tannoy announcement? He couldn't remember for certain.

But he could remember the last time he was addressed solely by his surname: _Travis, _yelled at him in anger; _Travis _spat at him in contempt; _Travis, _hissed at him in hatred.

"Call me Jesse," he shakily implored.

Doctor Grayson spared him a strange look – but then got immediately down to business. "So, how are you feeling?" she asked, producing a blood pressure cuff and cinching it firmly to his arm.

"Tired, confused. I'm not quite sure I remember..." he admitted."What about Millie?" he suddenly asked, desperate for a positive answer. He couldn't help but remember his thoughts when he'd first awoken: how she'd somehow been his atonement. It couldn't atone – but he still needed it to be real.

"Okay, one thing at a time," the doctor answered, with a smile – she knew how quickly an agile mind could almost fall over itself seeking answers. "You're going to be fine," she continued in an infuriatingly calm voice – and answering the one question he didn't much care about. "I had you admitted when you collapsed. You were exhausted, dehydrated and borderline malnutritious – not to mention soaked to the skin." Her look turned compassionate: "What happened to you?"

Jesse lowered his eyes. That was the one question he could not answer – or wasn't prepared to answer.

"What about Millie?" he asked again; this time on a sigh. He felt heat rise in his cheeks as he wondered to the actual reality of the night before. Had any of that really happened? Or had he been delusional; desperate to find a victim for his failing self-esteem. Had the nurse talked of 'celebrity' because he had been the lunatic wandering in off the street with a totally imaginary child in his arms?

His paranoia was quickly scuppered when Doctor Grayson offered him a gentle smile.

"She's making a full recovery. She woke up late last night and wanted to meet the man who was 'like an angel'. Her words, Jesse." She offered him a slight smile – realising there was more going on than met the eye. She had one more thing to say: "She said you made her not scared. And, to me, that's the sign of a good doctor." Her eyes met Jesse's and he couldn't look away.

* * *

_Pick up, pick up, pick up, _Steve implored silently. His eyes flicked constantly from his dad's room to the clock on the wall.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was running out of time.

Maybe he was – quite literally. There was more than one reason why Jesse's hospital stay might be a very brief one: his injuries might have been utterly minor (presuming he was injured and not sick) and needing nothing more than an overnight stay; he might take the very Jesse-like action of discharging himself AMA – Jesse never was the most patient of patients; or, heaven forbid, he might have been seriously wounded and could even now be fighting for his very life.

Steve shook that thought away just as soon as it entered his mind – and before it could fully descend into an even more tragic scenario.

It could not end like that. It simply couldn't.

But he had nothing more to go on than Cheryl's vague words – and those words hadn't painted the most optimistic of pictures. Jesse's car had been found abandoned and Jesse had been admitted to hospital. Those were the two stark truths he had to work with.

It wasn't enough.

There were dozens – if not hundreds – of reasons why either of those two things might come to pass. There were even a myriad of reasons as to how they both might transpire in the same night – but none of those reasons were good.

Steve had to know. He had to know what he had driven his best friend to – _maybe_ _former best friend_, his conscience silently sneered.

After one more glance through the hospital room window – and ensuring his dad was still sleeping – he'd dragged his cellphone from his pocket with one hand, whilst retrieving his notebook with the other.

A small part of him fretted and silently cursed. It was still prior to 9am and he somewhat unfairly feared that a small-town Sheriff's department in some sleepy backwater might not yet have risen for the day.

Steve had little prior experience to base such an assumption on, but he couldn't help himself. Nothing had gone right in the last few days – and he wasn't about to expect a change in fortune.

As he listened to the ringing on the other end of the phone, he bit back a sigh – waiting for the moment an automated voice would cut in and tell him to dial 911 if it was an emergency.

A voice did suddenly cut in and Steve was so hung up on his unjust judgement of a town he'd never even visited that he almost disregarded the actual words and was on the verge of snapping his phone shut.

But then the tinny voice registered properly:

"_Blackbrook Sheriff's office; how can I help?" _A pause – while Steve started back to reality – then: _"You're through to the Sheriff's office. Are you in need of assistance?"_

"Yeah, uh... Yeah," Steve spoke quickly – now terrified he'd be hung up on as a crank call. That thought alone made him quickly find his focus: "I'm Lieutenant Steve Sloan with the LAPD and I need to speak to..." He thumbed desperately through his notebook, trying to find the Sheriff's name – and then, belatedly, wondering if Cheryl had even told it to him. He was saved from embarrassment by the calm voice on the end of the phone:

"_Lieutenant Sloan, Sheriff Harvey is expecting your call."_

"Thank you, Miss..?" Steve felt it was somehow important that he know her name. When everything in his life had been so shot to hell, she had been almost like a lifeline. But his half-asked question went unanswered, as she replied:

"_Putting you though now, Lieutenant."_

* * *

Jesse opened his mouth, but no words came out because he simply did not know what to say. The doctor's words still reverberated around his head: _'the sign of a good doctor.'_

Maybe he had been – once upon a time, but not any more. And yet, here was Doctor Grayson looking at him with something akin to admiration – and she was talking to him with empathy and compassion; not the anger and disdain which were all he felt he deserved.

But then, she didn't know him; didn't know what he had done. What would he see shining from her eyes once she found out where he had come from? And what he was running from.

Finally, Jesse tore his eyes away from hers. He couldn't stay here any longer. His pressing need to escape returned a thousand fold – because he couldn't stand the thought of having to face condemnation from these people, too. Even though Doctor Grayson was a relative stranger – as were Sarah Logan and her family – he needed to get away before, somehow, they found out the truth about him.

He'd done a good thing – had saved a child's life – and he needed to hold on to that victory.

It might even help him hold on to his sanity.

"Can I go?" he asked, quietly; striving to keep the desperation from his voice, in case the doctor questioned its reason for being there.

But then he was left wondering if pleading might have been a better option as Doctor Grayson's brow furrowed.

"Go?" she repeated, sounding confused. "Why would you want to go? Millie can't wait to see you – but she's going to need some more tests this morning and..."

"No!" Jesse didn't know why panic spiked through his chest at the thought of coming face to face with the little girl he'd saved – but he couldn't help his reaction. He just knew that he didn't want to see her – or anyone else. He forced himself to calm down and glanced back up at the doctor: "I just need to go. I don't want any fuss..."

Doctor Grayson chuckled softly: "If you didn't want any fuss, then you shouldn't have come stumbling in on a stormy night with a dying child in your arms. The story broke last night and hit the newsstands this morning." She tilted her head and looked at him, critically. "They say nice things about you. And don't you think you deserve at least a little credit?"

Jesse merely shook his head. He recognised the truth in her words – and should have known it would be impossible to just slip quietly away. But that knowledge couldn't stop him from trying.

"Please." He looked at Doctor Grayson earnestly. "I don't care about headlines. I don't want any thanks. I just... There's somewhere I have to be..." he lied – seeking some way to get through to her. "It's important. Please. Will you help me?"

"Well I get the feeling if I keep asking questions, I'm not going to get any answers anyway." Her expression turned into one of compassion. "But you sure look like you could use someone to talk to."

* * *

"_Lieutenant Sloan, I'm Derek Harvey; Sheriff of Blackbrook. I must say, you haven't wasted any time in getting back to me." _There was a brief pause – but too brief for Steve to interrupt. _"I take it this Doctor Travis is important to you."_

"Yes Sir, he is," Steve answered, fervently. His eyes were fixed on his dad's slumbering form and he frowned as Mark stirred. He didn't want to continue this call in front of his dad – but knew he'd be in the room as soon as he awoke. He dove in with his most pressing question: "I heard he'd been admitted to hospital. Is he alright?"

"_It's a hell of a thing," _the Sheriff drawled; clearly not picking up on Steve silently imploring him to talk faster. _"I heard he bust into the ER like some kind of Superman; hardly able to stand, but with a dying kid in his arms. Looked like something out of a movie."_

"But is he alright?" Steve repeated, impatiently. His mind was whirring with what he'd been told, but the details could wait.

"_Well, I haven't been by the hospital myself but, from what my Deputy said, he just passed clean out. Went down like a tree, he said."_ Steve could practically sense him shaking his head as he spoke. _"Hardly surprising, I suppose. He must have come across Sarah Logan and her family some three miles from where we found his car. And in that storm we had blowing last night..."_

"I can imagine," Steve murmured; not wanting to think too deeply about that storm – nor the havoc it had wreaked on all of their lives. Not when the evidence was lying just a few short yards away from him.

"_Then I'm sure you can also imagine that I've got a few questions for your Doctor Travis, myself."_ The Sheriff's voice became somewhat more purposeful. _"Like what he was doing there. I don't suppose you can throw any light on that one?"_

"No. No, I honestly can't," he answered. It was just one of the many questions burning in his own mind.

"_So how about you tell me why he's of such interest to you boys down there in LA?"_

Steve suppressed a sigh as he wondered how he was supposed to answer that one. He didn't have the time – or the inclination – to go into a long explanation about what had happened; but nor did he want to trivialise those events. Unconsciously, he began to pace – wondering what he could possibly say to keep Sheriff Harvey's tentative cooperation: "It's complicated..." he tried to stall.

But he heard the man's sardonic chuckle down the phone and knew he had to come up with something more than that. The Sheriff's next words proved him right:

"_In our line of work, Lieutenant, 'complicated' usually goes with the territory." _With those words, his somewhat relaxed demeanour vanished completely and he was suddenly all business: _"Is there something I need to know? In light of what happened, your Doctor Travis is being treated as something of a local hero. Maybe he was last night – but now should he be considered dangerous?"_

Steve almost laughed out loud at that: the Sheriff made Jesse sound like he might be Public Enemy Number One. But any laughter would have been brittle and hollow. He simply didn't know how to explain to this man – no matter how professionally courteous he might seem – the reasons for Jesse being so important to him.

Instead of bitter laughter, he somehow found strangled words: "No, he's not dangerous." Clearing his throat, he tried to sound more official; less emotional. "But it is imperative that we speak to him."

"_Lieutenant Sloan, I don't like playing games – and I'm not going to play them with an anonymous voice down the phone." _Sheriff Harvey sounded aggrieved – and probably with good reason, Steve reluctantly conceded. He would probably have reacted in the exact same way.

"Look, I'm sorry. But it's..." Steve attempted to make peace, but was quickly overridden.

"_Complicated. I know."_ The other man cut in, sharply. _"But I'm going to head over to the hospital just as soon as I'm done talking to you. I've got my own questions to be answered. After that... Do you want to give me a reason to detain him? Else I'll just have to let him go."_

* * *

Mark woke early – just as he always did. As Steve had surmised, an injury – even a life changing one – couldn't affect the habits of a lifetime.

But he did wake more slowly; taking the time to relish the comfort of his bed, the warmth which cocooned him – and the simple, wonderful fact that it hadn't been a blaring alarm jerking him from his sleep.

It was a morning for a lie-in and for a brief, blissful moment he tried to remember what it had been like to just have a day off. To spend a few moments pondering breakfast; to decide that nothing pressing needed to be done that day.

But it was a fleeting memory – and it was swiftly quashed as he cracked his eyes open and remembered where he was. And what had happened.

His blissful morning was instantly sent fleeing from his mind and he looked towards the window. The sky was azure blue – holding no hint of the devastating storm that had so recently ravaged the city; and ravaged his life.

It felt like a kind of betrayal; a perverse injustice that the skies could move on without a care in the world – and with a complete lack of regard for the devastation and destruction they'd left behind.

But as Mark had told so many people – so many times and for so many different reasons – there was no point in dwelling in the past. Yesterday was gone – and today was the first day of the rest of your life:

'_I'm not dead.'_

His own words from the early hours – when the sky had still warred with itself – came back to him. It was true and Mark spared a small smile.

That smile swiftly faded as his gaze roved and affixed on the window between his room and the hospital corridor and saw Steve pacing restlessly up and down.

Mark couldn't actually know the true reason for his son's phone being pressed so firmly to his ear; nor his clear agitation as he spoke – but he knew he could do one thing to help: closing his eyes, he feigned sleep.

It wasn't that he didn't want to speak to his son – but, from Steve's body language, the call he was engaged in was an important one. And Mark knew his son too well:

It wouldn't matter if it was the President himself whom Steve was talking to; the call would be forgotten the instant he saw that his dad was awake.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you, everyone, for the wonderful reviews. You really know how to make a person's day! And thank you, Ina B for the apology. It was very much appreciated. **

**I hope you all continue to enjoy this.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Sixteen.

Jesse lay with his eyes closed, exhaustion still nagging at him in spite of his enforced rest. The IV drip still fed nutrients into him via the back of his hand and he resisted the urge to tear it free – because he genuinely believed he had got through to Doctor Grayson and that she would help him.

She had left him alone after he'd quietly asked her to, please, find his clothes. They had been in a pretty bad state, she'd wryly informed him – and so had been sent off to be laundered. His wallet and keys were safely locked up in her office.

The mention of his keys made Jesse pause and wonder what he planned to do if the Doctor did help him slip quietly away from the hospital. He wouldn't get very far without his car – and he clearly remembered running out of gas on a deserted stretch of lonely highway.

Was it still out there – sitting abandoned God only knew where? And, if so, how was he supposed to find it?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and strove to fight back tears. It wasn't supposed to be this complicated; he'd just wanted to get away – to get so far away that his bitter memories might be erased. So far away that he might, someday, be allowed to forget. So far away that...

Jesse stifled a sob. His own pretences were useless – and he knew his inadequacies were fated to plague him for the rest of his life.

It didn't matter where he went or what he did. He knew he would be forever haunted by the image of him taking Mark Sloan's left arm and dumping it into a biohazard container.

Maybe that wasn't a true recollection of what had actually happened; maybe someone else had actually disposed of the amputated limb – Jesse couldn't truly remember – but it didn't matter.

All that mattered was his hands performing the surgery; his hands forever changing his mentor's life.

That and his inadequacy at even being able to find out how Mark now fared.

Striving not to think of what might have happened at Community General since he'd left, Jesse tried to question if he actually needed his car: a train or a bus could easily take him North until he ran out of land – but then the door to his room suddenly opened again and the same bright nurse who'd so branded him 'quite the celebrity' poked her head back in:

"Someone out here's quite eager to see you," she chirped. And she was gone again before he had the chance to utter even a word of protest.

* * *

Steve eventually hung up on the stubborn Derek Harvey – having made what he saw as only miniscule progress. The Sheriff was going to talk to Jesse; get his answers and form his own opinions. Then he would give Steve a call back before deciding whether or not to let Jesse go – providing, of course, he was capable of going anywhere.

Whilst Steve grudgingly respected the other man's professional approach, he knew that it was of no use to him whatsoever. He was still no closer to finding a solution to his predicament – and Oregon was still half a day's drive away. Even if Sheriff Harvey decided to change his mind and help Steve out, he didn't know what he could possibly do.

It briefly crossed his mind that he could send Cheryl up to Blackbrook – possibly accompanied by Amanda – and she might convince Jesse to come back, so Steve could talk to him face-to-face.

But he couldn't put any faith in that idea. He knew Jesse too well; knew how passionate and sensitive he could be; knew how fragile his self-confidence was – and knew how easily it could be shattered.

Steve had done more than shatter it. He'd pulverised it. Ground it into dust. He, alone, had completely destroyed the man who Jesse Travis had once been.

So he, alone, was the only one who could undo all of that damage.

Amanda might try but he knew in his heart that she would fail. And her failure would add another casualty onto a list which was already too long.

If Cheryl were to go there alone, then the only way she'd bring Jesse back would be in handcuffs. No matter what the situation, there was no way in hell he'd ask his partner to risk her career by making a completely bogus arrest.

Which left only him. And he already knew what he had to do. It was the one thing he couldn't do. He couldn't leave his dad; no matter how badly he wanted to make things right with Jesse.

Unbidden, his eyes were drawn back to the window of his father's hospital room. Mark was turned away from him, but appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

Steve frowned.

Hadn't he already seen Mark moving restlessly – seemingly on the verge of waking up?

To Steve it was beyond improbable – even given his dad's condition – that he had been dragged back into a deep and motionless sleep. It was impossible.

He remembered how distracted he'd been by his conversation with Derek Harvey; remembered restlessly starting to pace. Every dozen or so steps had him facing away from the hospital room – and a dozen steps was more than enough time for eyes to flicker open and then instantly close again.

It didn't matter that he'd sustained a head injury; Mark's mind was as astute as ever – and this charade only reinforced that point to Steve. Although, he mused – albeit with more than a hint of paranoia – before the accident his dad's acting might have been a little more convincing.

He would have smiled, but he found absolutely no humour in the situation. Nothing was going right. And now his dad was involving himself – even if it was, perversely, an involvement by omission.

Steve knew, without a doubt, that Mark had been aware of his phone call to the Sheriff. He also knew that his dad wouldn't bring it up directly – but, as sure as the sun rose in the morning, he would find some way to make Steve tell him about it.

* * *

Amanda awoke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Underlying that was the warm, sweet scent of a freshly baked croissant. Blinking fully awake, she pushed herself up on the bed – and then smiled as Ron flourished a laden tray before her.

Aside from the goodies that had so tickled her olfactory sense, there was also a glass of orange juice, a fruit salad and a bowl of cereal.

"I drew the line at eggs and bacon," Ron said, with a grin.

"So you should," Amanda retorted, with a broad smile of her own. "Don't you think you've spoiled me enough already?"

"And don't _you_ think you deserve it?" He perched on the edge of the bed next to her – and then reached out to try and snag a strawberry from her fruit salad.

Laughing, Amanda playfully swatted his hand away – but it was the coffee mug that she reached for; her first need on any given morning.

She was still smiling as she took a sip of the brew; but then her eyes automatically sought out the clock on the nightstand – and she almost choked on her drink: "Ron! Why didn't you wake me sooner?" she cried; the sumptuous breakfast instantly forgotten. "I should have been at work an hour ago! And the boys..."

She attempted to push the breakfast tray away from her, but Ron's strong hands held it firmly in place. He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"You think I don't know that?" he asked, with a fond smile – he knew how dedicated his lover was to her career and how devoted she was to her family. "I got the boys ready and off to school – and I already called the hospital and told them you'd be taking a half day. Then he went on to admit: "I was going to tell them you were taking the whole day off – but I figured you'd only end up making a liar out of me."

"You figured right," Amanda retorted, faking a laugh. As much as she appreciated what Ron was doing for her – and how much she loved him for reasons exactly such as this – she felt she needed to be at the hospital. It might seem irrational and maybe even obsessive. After all, Mark wasn't true family – but he was the closest thing she had, aside from her boys. He'd been the one constant in her life, from the day she met him and then throughout her entire career. He'd always stood by her; always believed in her; had stepped up to the plate for her on occasions too many to count; had been more than a friend and more than a surrogate father.

By staying home for even half a day, she felt like she was failing to repay a debt that could never truly be repaid; albeit a debt that Mark would never, ever feel was owed to him.

She simply couldn't do it.

Half-heartedly, she pushed the tray away again. She truly appreciated what Ron had tried to do for her – and guilt stabbed at her heart at having to disappoint him. She loved him – and she could only hope he loved her back enough to understand.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I know." Ron offered a sympathetic smile and lifted the tray away from her as Amanda swung her legs off the bed. With another apologetic glance aimed in his direction, she headed towards the shower.

He sighed: "But I had to try," he muttered. But, by then, he was talking only to himself.

* * *

Jesse felt on the verge of hyperventilating. If he'd had even a remote option to flee, he would have taken it. But there was only one door to his room – behind which were the nurse along with whoever it was waiting to meet him. Plus the fact that he didn't have any clothes.

He felt sick at the thought of the next face he saw being Millie's. Whilst he was happy he'd saved her; he didn't want to see gratitude or, worse still, idolisation on her face.

'_The man who was 'like an angel'_' Doctor Grayson had quoted.

He couldn't be her angel. And he didn't want to look into her eyes and tell her that he was only human – and a deeply flawed human at that.

Then the door reopened and any (however improbable) option to flee was taken from him.

But, instead of the little girl he'd been expecting, it was the second least person he'd wanted to see – albeit for the exact same reasons. It was Sarah – and she was smiling shyly as she approached.

She lifted her right hand; not quite offering it outright for a handshake, but seeming to want to instigate some sort of physical contact. Almost without conscious thought, Jesse drew back in on himself – and Sarah's already hesitant steps stopped completely.

She glanced backwards and Jesse followed her redirected gaze. The over-enthusiastic nurse, seemingly looking for her Hallmark moment, gave her an encouraging thumbs-up.

Jesse glared at her, sickened by the situation he found himself him – he didn't want to see Sarah – but the nurse didn't so much as glance in his direction:

"_Go on."_ She mouthed at the now nervous woman – her excitement at being a part of the previous night's drama apparent in her very demeanour. A raised eyebrow and none too subtle jerk of her head only reinforced her words.

Sarah nodded and turned back to where Jesse lay, but – unlike the nurse, she definitely picked up on his detached mood and didn't approach any closer.

"Hi, I didn't mean to disturb you, but..." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears: "But I can't remember if I even said 'thank you' to you. And after what you did..."

Jesse shook his head. This was beyond hard for him; it was beyond impossible. How was he supposed to reconcile between saving one life against destroying so many.

He wasn't a fool. He had destroyed more than just Mark's life. He had destroyed Steve's, too. And Amanda's; and Ron's; and CJ's; and Dion's. And every single other person who had had Mark's influence in their life.

"You saved Millie's life." Sarah's voice interrupted his dark musings. "And a mere 'thank you' can never, ever be enough."

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, tightly. He was moved by Sarah's words; by her quietly spoken – yet unmistakably sincere – gratitude. And he wanted to respond to her – to say something and not just lie there, seeming to ignore her.

But he was caught inside a mess of emotions – and he simply didn't know how to feel.

* * *

Steve opened the door to Mark's hospital room – and then hid his smile as his dad seemed to sleep on for a few seconds before stirring restlessly and turning towards where Steve was. His mouth moved, mouthing silent words, before he seemed to settle back into sleep again.

He almost smiled – indeed he would have, had the Sheriff's words not been weighing so heavily on his mind.

He never for a minute believed that Sheriff Harvey would find any reason to detain Jesse. Which meant they had mere hours to get to Jesse before he went on the run again.

He couldn't count on the 'marker on his car' ruse working again. They couldn't risk even trying again. Whoever had done it the first time had not only made it pay off – but they'd also got away with it, without detection.

_Whoever had done it the first time..._

Cheryl had said it wasn't her and, obviously, Steve knew it wasn't him. He had a myriad of connections who owed him favours – but he'd been too busy and too self-absorbed to call a single one of those favours in. He shook his head, chagrined at the thought that he hadn't even considered using those connections.

But his process of elimination left him with only one candidate who might have tracked Jesse down.

Ron Wagner; Special Agent with the FBI: he had the resources, the know-how and the discretion.

Steve snorted softly at not having thought of it sooner and silently thanked the agent for what he'd achieved so far. He'd try and remember to thank him for it properly – presuming his theory was correct. But, in the meantime, he settled into the chair next to his dad's bed and waited for Mark's charade to end.

He didn't have to wait long.

Mark murmured softly and his eyes flickered open. He turned his head and offered Steve a sleepy smile: "Good morning," he murmured.

"Hey," Steve smiled back in return – and decided not to call his dad on his unsuccessful attempt at deception. It wouldn't achieve anything to let him know that his 'sleeping in' hadn't fooled him for even one iota. Instead, he simply asked: "How do you feel?"

"Surprisingly well – all things considered," Mark answered; trying hard to convey his natural perk. In truth, whilst he wasn't actually in any real pain – thanks to the morphine being fed into him – he was still experiencing occasional bouts of Phantom Limb Pain. And they scared him half to death. Even now he felt the horrid sensation begin to tingle in his now gone left arm and he forced his attention back to his son. It was the only hope he had of making it go away.

Now his hand was itching – his hand that wasn't there. He strove to hold onto some semblance of composure and asked: "How are you doing? Did you sleep at all?"

"Dad, I'm not the one lying in a hospital bed!" Steve's response was automatic – and probably would have been the same no matter what his dad had said. But then it registered how old Mark was looking – and the alarming greyness to his skin. Panic spiked in his chest: "Should I call the doctor?"

"No, Steve. No... I'm fine." He summoned a reassuring smile – and, with a massive effort, pushed the PLP from his mind. It would have to be addressed, but now was not the time. He somehow found a smile: "Will you please stop babying me?"

"Dad!" Steve easily conveyed the exasperation in his voice.

"Steve," Mark countered, deadpan. Then he continued, more seriously: "I'm doing everything I can. I've spoken to my psychiatrist and I've got appointments with more 'ists' than you could ever imagine. But, right now, I could do with a distraction. So, please, tell me about your day." He offered a genial smile: "Please, distract me."

And, in that moment, Steve was caught – as he'd known he would be. His dad had neatly trapped him.

He was left with two options: tell him about the phone call – about them knowing where Jesse was. Or lie.

And Steve wasn't about to lie.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

**This chapter is a little shorter, but I'm going away tomorrow for a long weekend – and I wanted to get an update posted before I go. Also, please be aware that the next chapter may be a little slower in coming. Sorry, but Prague is calling! Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. **

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Seventeen.

"Tell you about my day?" Steve repeated, striving to find some way to stall. With an exaggerated flourish he looked at his watch: "Dad, it's eight-fifty am – there's not a lot of my day to tell you about."

"Okay," Mark conceded. He shifted slightly on the bed; the covers feeling suddenly heavy and stifling. Frowning, he tried to get his thoughts back on track: "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Yeah, I got a few hours." Steve didn't elaborate on where he'd slept, because he knew it would only unnecessarily worry his dad if he knew he hadn't been home at all since the accident. But then he realised what he said or didn't say didn't matter, because Mark didn't appear to be listening.

His dad was moving restlessly and the expression on his face was one of obvious discomfort.

"Dad, are you okay?" he asked, his eyes seeking out the 'call' button. He didn't instantly reach out to press it, but his hand was poised.

"No... Yes..." Mark closed his eyes and involuntarily shook his head: "I'm fine..."

But his tone wasn't convincing – and Steve wasn't convinced.

"Dad?" His fingers twitched closer to the button.

"No... No, I..." His eyes cracked open, but they held none of their usual sparkle. "I'm fine," he said again – and then added, equally unconvincingly: "You were telling me about Jesse..."

"No I wasn't." And Steve's concern was wracked up another notch. His dad was normally more devious – or at least more subtle – when trying to gain information his son didn't want him to know.

Then, as his dad's pallor suddenly turned a terrifying shade of grey, he finally pressed his thumb against the little button guaranteed to have help with him in just a few short seconds.

As he did so, Mark also moved – but then pulled up, sharply.

Steve's thumb felt like it was glued to the 'call' button – but his eyes had no such constraints. He knew what had just happened:

He'd lunged for the button and Mark had tried to stop him; but the 'call' button was on Mark's left side – and he'd tried to grasp Steve's wrist with his left hand. The hand that was no longer there.

Their eyes locked; Mark horrified by the abrupt, harsh reminder of his disability, and Steve swamped by guilt at being the reason for seeing that look on his dad's face – but, before any further words could be spoken, the door burst open. And, in the same instant, Mark's eyes drifted closed.

* * *

Amanda didn't know why, but she felt an almost inherent sense of urgency when she got to the hospital. In the back of her mind she knew it was somewhat ridiculous – if anything had happened then someone would have called – but her heels still clicked out a staccato rhythm as she made her way briskly through the corridors.

She was almost two hours late and she couldn't help but remember what had happened to Jesse when he had been guilty of the exact same sin:

"_Amanda was paging you, I heard her. So where the hell were you?"_

Steve's furious voice still reverberated around her head – and irrational guilt stabbed at her heart; because she knew that Jesse had taken those words more deeply even than to heart.

Jesse – dear, sweet Jesse – who, in spite of his years and the ugly realities of his profession, could still seem naive; almost innocent at times. He wore his heart on his sleeve – and whilst he took praise with humility (and sometimes an almost childlike enthusiasm), he took criticism like a physical blow.

And Steve had not only rained blow after blow down on him relentlessly; but he'd also made her a part of the attack. She had levelled no blame; had never even thought that Jesse's tardiness had any real effect on what happened that morning. Even if he'd been two hours early, the outcome would have been the same: Mark's arm had been lost as he lay trapped in his car, so those two hours didn't make a damned bit of difference.

But it was one thing for her to know that. It was quite another to make Jesse understand it – if they ever even got the chance to try. Steve's words would linger and fester and then twist into something they were not; something they had never been: they would become her own personal bitter condemnation of him.

Unconsciously, she hurried her footsteps even more – her brisk walk close to breaking into a run. Then she turned a corner and, almost literally, bumped into Kirk Fitzpatrick.

"Oh!" She couldn't prevent the startled cry from escaping her lips and she almost overbalanced as she jerked reflexively away. Only Kirk's hand darting out to grab hold of her arm prevented her from a very inelegant tumble. Regaining her equilibrium, she offered him a smile of thanks.

"Amanda, are you alright?" The young doctor looked at her with open concern – and Amanda paused to wonder just what a sight she must have looked: almost running down the hallways; wild-eyed and with her concerns for Jesse playing across her features. She must have looked a thousand miles away from the calm, composed and elegant woman everyone was so used to seeing.

"Sorry," she said, with a sheepish smile.

"No problem," Kirk replied – but he continued to look at her, strangely: "I take it you're going to see Mark, but what's the hurry?"

"I'm running a little late," she murmured and, again, irrational guilt twisted in her gut.

The look Kirk gave her told her – more eloquently than words ever could – that he too was remembering the day of Mark's accident.

Then they turned a corner and saw a flurry of activity in the corridor. It didn't matter that there were a dozen more patients housed on that floor. Both of them broke into a run.

* * *

"Dad? Dad!" Steve was panicking, but he couldn't help it.

It didn't help his tattered nerves when the first nurse through the door took one look at Mark – and leapt into instant action; at the same time calling over her shoulder for someone to find a doctor. Stat.

Fear holding him in near paralysis, Steve could only watch from a distance – forced away from his dad's bedside and then left to stand helplessly by.

When the door suddenly burst open again, he selfishly wished it was something _he_ needed to deal with; something _he _could do.

But, as Doctor Fitzpatrick – closely followed by Amanda – rushed into the room, he felt only a profound sense of relief.

Help was at hand.

"Amanda..." He was shaking his head, helplessly as he spoke. "I don't know what happened... I don't... What's wrong? What..?"

"Steve! Steve, you need to calm down." Amanda struggled to maintain her own composure; even as she implored Steve to hold on to his. Her frantic gaze constantly flickered from him to the bed.

It didn't matter that Mark was almost completely obscured from her view; she could still glean an idea of what was going on: his temperature and blood pressure were taken; his eyes were checked for pupil reaction; his breathing and heart rate measured.

They were all standard tests – but there was a much easier way to try and discern exactly what had happened to cause Mark to relapse:

"Steve, did Mark say anything?" she demanded – knowing she needed answers quickly. The slightest thing might be of the utmost importance. "Did he complain of any pain? Any discomfort?" In the periphery of her awareness she heard Kirk Fitzpatrick tell a nurse that they'd need to move Mark to the ICU – and, with an edge of hysteria to her voice, demanded: "Anything?"

"No! No, nothing!" Steve's own heart was beating out of control – and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. With an almost superhuman effort, he bit down hard on his emotions. His dad's life might depend on it. He took a deep breath: "No. He was... not himself." It was all he had to offer and he hated how useless it made him feel. "I don't know... maybe confused..." Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair. "Dammit, I don't even know how he's _supposed_ to be feeling!"

"It's okay; it's okay," Amanda soothed; even though the words sounded pathetic and inadequate, even to her own ears. She didn't know any of the answers Steve was silently demanding of her. She was a pathologist – and, thus, not used to dealing with the living. "Steve..." She tried to explain her own inadequacies, but was rudely interrupted.

The coarse, grating squeal of wheels badly in need of oiling silenced anything else she might have said. From nowhere, two orderlies had arrived and were in the process of moving his dad's bed.

Before Amanda could even think of trying to stop him, Steve lunged passed her and confronted Doctor Fitzpatrick.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

To his immense credit, Kirk reacted with only the slightest of flinches – and then he looked Steve square in the eye:

"Your father's temperature is dangerously high – and it has risen alarmingly quickly," the doctor explained, in an infuriatingly calm tone. "There is also some inflammation around his sutures and it looks highly likely he's developed an infection. Given everything he's been through, it's best that we move him to the ICU. It's purely precautionary at this time..."

Steve didn't hear anything else that might have been said – and he staggered away from the doctor.

This wasn't supposed to be happening. Mark had been through so much already. He'd been hurt and trapped and had almost died. His heart had stopped – and had been jump-started like a failing battery in an old car.

But he'd survived. And he hadn't survived merely to succumb to an infection.

Steve sagged against the nearest wall – feeling tears, yet again, threaten to overwhelm him. But he wouldn't cry any more.

He couldn't.

His emotions – almost bordering on grief – were affecting his rationale; clouding his judgement.

He needed to focus; because something that had been said to him wasn't making any sense:

'_Temperature... Inflammation... Infection... Infection... Infection...'_

Steve shook his head, hard – as though trying to shake off a bad dream. This simply couldn't be happening. He'd reconciled with his feelings for Jesse; had accepted the tragic accident – and its consequences – for what it was; had felt overwhelming gratitude for him saving his dad's life; he had, albeit too late, forgiven and was trying to make amends. But...

'_Infection.'_

He looked at Amanda – somehow bleak and hopeful at the same time: "He didn't screw up," he said – and it wasn't quite a question. But the next words spilled out in spite of himself: "Tell me he didn't screw up."

* * *

Jesse listened to Sarah as she told her story; a story he hadn't asked for – and a story he didn't particularly want to hear. But once she'd started talking, he didn't have it in his heart to stop her.

Millie was undergoing tests; Joey was sleeping – with his recently arrived dad at his bedside; and she needed to take her mind off her myriad of worries.

When she had arrived at his room, her only intention was to thank him – but, once she'd done that, she hadn't shown any inclination towards leaving.

So Jesse –still battling with his own emotions – somehow welcomed the distraction. This was something good that he'd done and he needed to hold on to that one, positive thought; or else he might descend completely into depression.

So he listened as Sarah recounted exactly why she'd been stranded on a washed-out section of road in the heart of the worst storm of the year.

It was only further testimony to his battered emotional state that his normally insatiable curiosity hadn't once wondered about those reasons.

The story itself was surprisingly mundane; holding not a hint of excitement to even suggest that such drama would soon follow:

Sarah's husband, Craig, had been relocated to Eugene. As his company wanted him on their new site immediately, he had flown on ahead. Sarah had stayed a few extra days, to tie up a thousand or so loose ends. Then she had been delayed for a couple more hours when the children insisted on saying goodbye to everyone – and every_thing_ – in their old neighbourhood. She almost cried as she recalled Joey hugging the tree in their back yard, before planting a gentle kiss on its trunk.

Because of the delay, she'd sent the delivery van on its way. It had been sticking to Highways and Interstates – and she had been meant to follow it. When that plan went awry, she followed – as she described with a wry smile – a short cut.

That was where her story ended – and it ended with astonishingly good timing as, at that exact moment, the door opened.

Doctor Grayson poked her head in: "Sarah, can you spare us a few minutes?" she asked, with a gentle smile. "There's someone else here who really needs to speak to Doctor Travis."

Jesse opened his mouth to protest against being called 'Doctor Travis' but, before the words could leave his lips, a man brushed past Doctor Grayson; instantly imposing himself on the entire room.

"Jesse Travis? I'm Sheriff Harvey." The newcomer didn't offer his hand to be shaken, but stood with his arms folded across his chest. "I have some questions for you."

"O... Okay." Jesse was intimidated, but tried hard not to show it. Instantly on the defensive, he stuttered: "I... I just ran out of gas..."

"Which brings me to my first question." The Sheriff was impassive; unmoving. "Fifteen miles south of where we found your car, there's a sign. A damned big sign. A sign that stands over forty feet high. It was a sign for a gas station. Did you not see it?"

Jesse winced away from the sarcasm in his voice – and wondered what he'd done to make an enemy of this man, when everyone else in Blackbrook was determined to treat him like a hero.

"No, I didn't see it." Jesse closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn't be believed. "I was... distracted..."

"Distracted," Sheriff Harvey repeated, flatly. "But not so 'distracted' that you'd pass by Sarah Logan and her kids."

"I don't... I don't understand... I didn't do anything wrong..."

But the Sheriff merely speared him with that same, impassive gaze and said: "Then why am I getting eight am calls from cops down in LA?"

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you all for the amazing reviews. Hopefully, the updates will get back on to a more regular schedule from now on. Thanks for your patience. **

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). One extra warning, for this chapter alone: please remember that the latter part of this chapter is written solely from Jesse's point of view and perceptions... (and I apologise for the ending...)**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Eighteen.

Only knowing the barest details – in fact, exactly as much as Steve himself knew – there was little Amanda could say to comfort or reassure him. But she did know that there were any number of reasons why Mark might have succumbed to an infection. It didn't necessarily mean that something had gone wrong during the original surgery; or that anyone had 'screwed up'.

However, she couldn't say such words aloud to Steve – not when all she had to go on was conjecture and theory. For one thing, it would only give him further cause to worry – if he actually knew the myriad of complications that might have arisen; for another, she had the means of getting some answers before she ventured forward any theory.

Knowing it was inadequate, she patted Steve gently on the arm: "Let me go and talk to Kirk and try to find out what's going on."

She didn't expect to be simply allowed to walk out on him – and the detective didn't disappoint her in that respect.

"I want to see him," he said – his tone firm, but his eyes terrified. "Amanda..."

"Give it a little while," she implored in return. When he opened his mouth to argue, she gently cupped his face in her hands. "I know how scared you are. Steve, I'm scared too, but..."

"Amanda, please! I thought..." he pulled away and turned abruptly away from her. "I thought..."

"I know, I know." Amanda cut him off before he could complete the worst case scenario so obviously running through his mind. She didn't want him to vocalise that thought, lest he somehow tempt fate. Pushing her own terror to the back of her mind, she strove to keep her voice calm: "It's going to take a while to get him settled into the ICU and then he's going to need some tests."

When Steve turned back to her and then could only stare, looking completely helpless, she felt tears flood her eyes. Again, her own emotions were being stretched beyond breaking point. But, somehow, she held onto her composure. She had to – because Steve needed her. And, no matter how devastated she felt, then she knew he was feeling it about a thousand times worse.

Her eyes feeling too big with the effort of holding her tears at bay, she forced a smile.

"Why don't you go to the canteen and get something to eat?" she tentatively suggested. "Mark won't be allowed any visitors yet, but I promise you – I _promise _you – that I'll come fetch you the second he is."

She could hardly believe it when Steve responded with a shaky nod. He took two steps towards the door and then turned back. His terror was no longer reflected just in his eyes: it was written over his whole face. And when he gasped her name, it was an unspoken plea.

Amanda forced herself not to recoil from the pain he was so outwardly demonstrating – and she easily allowed her natural compassion to rise to the fore.

"The _second_ he's allowed visitors, Steve," she promised again. "You'll be the first to know."

Then Steve was gone and Amanda collapsed briefly against the wall. Her hard fought against tears temporarily won the battle – and two trickled out despite her best efforts to stop them.

Then she sniffed and heaved in a breath. No matter how easy it would be to break down in that room – with nobody there to witness it – she resolutely refused to do so.

She had promised Steve she'd fetch him once his dad was able to receive visitors; and when that happened – and for both their sakes – she also wanted to be able to provide him with some answers.

* * *

'_...eight am calls from cops down in LA...'_

Jesse heard those words and his breath hitched, painfully. He tried to draw in another one, but it jammed in his throat as panic launched a full-scale assault on his already overloaded emotions.

'_Oh God, he's dead. Oh God...'_ Terrified thoughts raced through his head – but they all resolved into one dreadful conclusion: _'He's dead. I killed him.'_

In spite of his utter panic and his sudden inability to even draw breath, it all came together with, what he thought was, utter clarity: Mark had died and he was being held accountable. It explained the Sheriff's presence and his hostile attitude – and it was the only explanation he could come up with for LA cops trying to track him down.

He couldn't fathom any other reason for the Sheriff being there – and saying what he was saying.

Pain spiked in his chest and his back arched involuntarily. He could hear his own laboured attempts to breathe – wheezing like an asthmatic in the throes of an acute attack. His lungs strained and his heart pounded wildly; but Jesse merely closed his eyes.

'_Let me die,'_ he silently begged. _'Please, let me die.'_

Because, if he had been responsible for Mark Sloan's death, then not even prison could atone. He didn't know what the sentences were for medical negligence, or malpractice, or any other charge that might be levied – but it didn't matter. A lifetime in prison wouldn't be enough.

He thought he'd known pain before – when his clumsy hands had maimed his mentor; had crippled him. But now it was clear that he'd done much worse – and his previous pain faded to nothing in the face of this new and indescribable agony.

What had Mark succumbed to? Infection? Necrosis? Haematoma? Or had his heart simply given out on him?

It didn't matter – and, when Jesse's next abortive inhalation set blackness clawing at the edges of his vision, he didn't try to fight the beckoning darkness.

He was on his way to Hell – and it was everything he deserved.

But then there was the sudden sensation of oxygen being forced into his straining lungs. He felt the intrusion of hands around his face; a strap around his head; a mask upon his mouth. He tried to raise his hands – wanting to fight; to, please, be allowed to die – but stronger hands held him down.

And his own body committed the ultimate betrayal by greedily sucking in lungful after lungful of sweet oxygen, until even his racing heartbeat slowed – and the only pain remaining was the agony seared deep down in his soul.

* * *

Amanda knew she couldn't be in too much of a hurry. She hadn't lied to Steve when she said it would take time to get Mark settled – and then there were the multitude of tests they'd have to run.

But there was another reason for her lack of haste: she didn't want Kirk to emerge and tell her about any infection; didn't want to hear any news that might drive a wedge even more firmly between Jesse and the ones who loved him.

It pained her heart to think that he, most likely, didn't consider himself to be loved any more.

But, as she stalked the hospital corridors, she couldn't think of any other outcome from the tests Mark was going to be subjected to.

And an infection would be a nail in Jesse's coffin that even she might not be able to extract.

'_Please God, let him be alright.'_ And she actually stopped in the middle of the hallway, with her eyes closed and her hands clasped together.

Amanda opened her eyes – oblivious to the strange looks being cast in her direction – and then wondered exactly which one of them she was praying for.

Mark was the obvious choice: enhoused in the ICU and undergoing tests – but in the very best of hands and with the most specialist treatment available.

Then there was Steve: worried beyond sick – and helpless to know how his father fared, because everything he heard came at him too quickly – or in 'doctor-speak' which always lost something in translation.

Finally, there was Jesse.

_Jesse. _

She couldn't even know how he fared – and she shied away from the scenarios her brain kept conjuring up for her: Jesse driving, crying, crashing; Jesse opening the cap of a bottle of sleeping pills and then swallowing a dozen; Jesse hanging from the rafters of a sleazy motel room; Jesse dead.

Amanda didn't know why her imagination drove her down such a morbid road – normally, she would never have even entertained the idea that Jesse might commit suicide.

But she was a long way removed from a normal frame of mind – and she was deeply and utterly terrified for Jesse. She could understand him fleeing; in fact, couldn't blame him at all given Steve's behaviour towards him. What she couldn't understand was his complete lack of communication since then. It wasn't that she expected him to call her directly – but she had left instructions that any anonymous, nervous, or in any way suspicious phone call be reported to her.

There had been none.

And that was so un-Jesse like that it sent her imagination into a dark, downward spiral. Jesse cared about his patients – cared too much, in some people's opinions. It didn't matter how obnoxious, or rude, or even downright nasty they might be; he always followed up right until the patient was no longer his responsibility.

In all cases – and regardless of the fearful abuse that was often the bane of an ER doctor – he always responded with a smile and a shrug and with him making sure they got on their way safely; whether it was after a lengthy stay, or a ten minute patch up.

All of which made it wholly inconceivable to Amanda that Jesse hadn't once checked up on Mark.

Surely he would have – had he been able.

So maybe Amanda prayed just that little bit harder for Jesse. She simply prayed that he was still alive.

Then, as was bound to happen no matter how slowly she walked, she arrived outside the ICU. Her arrival coincided exactly with Kirk exiting from one of the rooms.

* * *

The moment Jesse regained his senses – sagging back against the bed and breathing normally again – he heard Sheriff Harvey bark: "What the hell was that?"

"Panic attack," Doctor Grayson's response was sharp – almost angry – and Jesse wanted to tell her not to waste her anger on him.

But he knew why she sounded angry – and he would have reacted in the very same way. No matter who – or what – his patient was.

In a strange kind of way, the exchange between Doctor Grayson and the Sheriff almost reminded him of him and Steve – in times now considered history to him: Steve would try to insist, but Jesse would put his foot down. Talking to any patient would only happen under circumstances and conditions dictated by him.

He and Steve had locked horns too many times to count – and that was when he cut the memories off, before they could become too nostalgic. They had already become too painful.

He had killed Steve's dad. Steve, who had been his best friend – almost from the very day he'd arrived in LA.

And he'd repaid him by killing his father. It didn't matter if it was an accident. It didn't matter that he hadn't even been there when Mark died. Dead was dead – and it was his fault.

A small sound of distress escaped his lips and, a moment later, Doctor Grayson was leaning over him. The oxygen mask was gently removed from his face – and he quickly looked away. He didn't want to face her; didn't want to face anybody.

'_Mark's dead and I killed him.'_

He closed his eyes – but he wasn't allowed even a brief respite as Sheriff Harvey's voice split the air:

"I'm supposed to think it's a coincidence?" he demanded – clearly reaching the limit of his patience. "I mention cops in LA and he has a panic attack?" Heavy footsteps, crossing the room, accompanied the words, then: "Open your eyes, son."

There was something unexpectedly compassionate in the Sheriff's voice; something that threw him completely off kilter. He opened his eyes and looked up at Sheriff Harvey.

Never one to be able to hide his emotions he knew his guilt would be written all over his face. And he waited to be read his rights; to be handcuffed and taken away to jail.

But the Sheriff had the strangest expression on his face. For the most part it was exasperation, but there was also a begrudging hint of admiration.

"I want you to be the hero the whole town's making you out to be. I really do." He shook his head in seemingly genuine disappointment. "A Good Samaritan – who, by blind fortune or the grace of God, saved Millie Logan's life; just happening to be in the right place at the right time."

"That's what happened!" Jesse couldn't help but respond. It was a good thing he'd done – and now it was being intimated that it might be something else? "No, that's exactly what happened."

"I'm not disputing that, son – but I am asking how you happened to be in the right place at the right time." He offered a soft smile: "Though I am glad you were there; so are Millie's folks, I expect." The smile instantly disappeared. "But then we found your car – and, in your car, we found your packed bag with your passport shoved down into one pocket."

Jesse's breath quickened, but he couldn't find words. His eyes sought out Doctor Grayson, but she had retreated to the back of the room – and was clearly trying not to interfere. She wouldn't even make eye contact with him.

"Then I get an early morning wake-up call from the LAPD," the Sheriff ploughed on, relentlessly. "And it doesn't take a blind man in a dark room to see that you're running. You wanna tell me what you're running from?"

Absurdly, Jesse fixed on the phrase _'a blind man in a dark room'_. It didn't make any sense and he couldn't understand it – but nor could he understand why it was so important. With everything that was at stake, he was obsessing over a phrase? _'A blind man in a dark room?'_

"Doctor Travis!" Sheriff Harvey barked – interrupting his diversely inappropriate train of thought – and gone was the almost friendly addressing him as 'son'. At the back of his mind, Jesse was profoundly grateful: Mark had often called him 'son'.

But he never would again. Jesse had botched the operation. Jesse had thought he'd saved his life at the expense of taking his left arm. But, ultimately, it seemed he'd taken both.

"What are you running from?" The demand was repeated – all pretence of pleasantry long gone.

And Jesse whispered: "I killed him."

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

**Thank you all for the amazing reviews – it always helps to know that this story is still being enjoyed. Seriously, you guys keep me going!**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Nineteen.

"Killed who?" Surprisingly, it wasn't the Sheriff who asked the question; but Doctor Grayson. So much for her paying them no attention. But he could hardly condemn her for her curiosity – he had so often been guilty of the exact same trait himself.

But, even though he could relate to it, he wasn't about to satisfy that curiosity – and he merely shook his head.

Guilt was still weighing heavily on him, but now grief was vying to capture his emotions.

Mark was dead. Reasons and blame and culpability didn't matter. It only mattered that Mark was dead.

He was in danger of descending completely into profound grief, but then Sheriff Harvey's voice cut like a dagger through his myriad of emotions:

"Is that a confession, Doctor Travis?"

Lost, confused, guilty and grieving, Jesse could only nod faintly in response to the demand. He wasn't completely sure of what was going on – but he did know that it was time to stop running.

Mark was dead – and he had killed him. It was time for him to take responsibility and to face whatever punishment the law demanded. The very idea of going to prison should have terrified him – a few days spent on remand for a murder he didn't commit some years previously still had the power to give him nightmares – but he found that he didn't even care.

It was all he deserved.

"Is he well enough to be moved?" The Sheriff asked; and Jesse turned his eyes towards Doctor Grayson – silently praying for her acquiescence. He didn't want her trying to protect him, just because of what had transpired the night before.

But the Doctor behaved with the height of professionalism and nodded in response to the Sheriff's question. She looked shell-shocked and Jesse couldn't really blame her. He had woken that morning a hero – with reporters waiting to talk to him – but he'd be leaving in handcuffs; exposed as a murderer.

As her eyes clouded with disappointment, Jesse looked away. Somehow he felt that he'd let her down – and not only her, but the entire Logan family too. Guilt nagged at him that they would be the ones hounded by the newspapers once this revelation came to light – but that guilt paled into insignificance when he heard the Sheriff say: "Find him some clothes, so I can get him out of here. Time to find out who this kid's confessing to killing."

* * *

Amanda walked into the hospital canteen and almost instantly saw Steve. He was in profile to her – and her footsteps faltered.

His shoulders were slumped, his head down – but she could still see how drawn his features were. He looked like he'd aged about ten years.

It didn't help that the canteen was far from empty – and constant sympathetic looks were being shot in Steve's direction. Amanda was a little surprised that no-one actually approached Steve in order to express their concern, personally. Mark was an immensely popular man.

But then she found she had to force herself to approach him more closely. His shoulders tightened and his head ducked even lower – his body language practically screaming 'leave me alone!'

No wonder nobody else had dared venture near him.

But Amanda didn't have the luxury of backing away and leaving him to his clearly craved for solitude. She had news for him.

She only wished it was good news.

Pulling out the chair next to him, she watched as he listlessly stirred his spoon around a bowl of long since soggy cereal. A limp-looking fruit salad sat, seemingly untouched, nearby – making Amanda wonder if he'd actually eaten anything at all.

But now wasn't the time to be wondering about his appetite – or lack thereof. What she had to say would have killed any appetite he might have had, anyway.

"Hey," she said, by way of greeting – pulling out a chair and sitting down next to him. She glanced at him, but then looked quickly away: her perception that he'd aged ten years was a false one. Up close, it looked more like twenty years.

"How is he?" The words were spoken quietly – almost as though he was resigned to the worst news. His eyes never left the cornflakes slowly forming a clumpy mass in his bowl.

Amanda offered a reassuring smile, regardless of the fact that Steve wasn't looking at her. The news she had to impart wasn't good – but it wasn't the worst either. And she had found one majorly positive thing to take out of it.

She could only pray that Steve would see that positive.

"He's not too bad," she answered, carefully. "There is an infection – but, for now, it's being managed with a broad spectrum antibiotic."

Steve looked up sharply and speared her with his gaze: "For now?" he demanded.

Amanda winced away from the hoarse desperation in his voice and strove to hold onto her calmness. She'd rehearsed this conversation on her way over to find Steve – but it wasn't going even remotely the way she'd planned.

"It's not what you think, Steve," she tried to elucidate; tried to impart the positive: "The infection isn't in his arm."

"What?" Steve looked lost and she couldn't blame him. She wasn't exactly explaining herself very well.

"He has an infection in his chest wound," She said. And _that_ was where she found the one, small positive. It was a tiny victory – almost miniscule – but it wasn't another blame to be levelled at Jesse.

* * *

Steve stared at Amanda and tried to make his mouth work, but no words came out. Everything that he was being told didn't come to him as mere words – it was a bombardment to his every sense.

He heard 'infection' and 'broad spectrum antibiotics' – and was prepared to hate Jesse all over again. But he put the feeling on hold, because Amanda's eyes were shining with a muted kind of hope. And if he fell into such deep hatred again, he didn't think he'd be able to claw his way back out of it.

So he put his feelings on hold and stared at a saturated piece of melon floating atop his unappetising and untouched fruit salad.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten – couldn't envisage when he'd want to eat again.

His life had been put on hold the moment Mark had been rushed in to the hospital; in danger of bleeding to death and his heart barely beating.

And, after everything that had followed, there weren't supposed to be any further complications. They had faced a nightmare and come out of the other side; not unscathed – in fact, most definitely scathed – but they had emerged and it was supposed to be over.

He could reconcile to the amputation; could learn to live with the disability. But now an infection?

He had finally accepted that Jesse had done exactly what he had to do; he'd succumbed to the knowledge that his dad would have died had Jesse not amputated his arm; had felt utter and inconsolable remorse when he remembered the way he'd treated Jesse – the things he'd said.

Then he heard _'infection' _and he had to tamp down on the renewed anger bubbling in his chest. He'd reacted with a knee-jerk once before – and it had cost him dear. He wasn't about to make the same mistake again.

Then Amanda said the fateful words: _'he has an infection in his chest wound'_ and everything became clear to him.

"Jesse cut off his arm." When he saw Amanda wince in reaction to his words, he knew he hadn't got his point across very well.

"I mean... Jesse operated on his arm..." He shook his head – mostly to try and avoid Amanda's shocked gaze – and tried again: "Jesse didn't operate on his chest."

"No, he didn't. The chest wound wasn't life-threatening," she tried to explain.

"Not life-threatening?!" Steve retorted, angrily. "Amanda, his heart stopped!" He knew that he would never, ever forget the shrill whine of the heart monitor splitting the air; drowning out even the urgent voices of the doctors and nurses. And he would forever be haunted by the sight of his dad's body being jerked clean off the table when the defibrillator paddles were applied to his exposed and bloody chest.

Even now, the vivid memory of it almost had the power to stop his own heart.

"Steve, honey..."

He felt the warmth of Amanda's hand on his forearm – and it brought him back to the present. With a shudder, he tried to shrug off the memory and focus on what he was being told.

"His heart stopping was the result of shock, of blood loss, of any number of contributing factors," she explained gently. "But the wound itself was..."

"Not life-threatening, I get it." Steve pulled his arm free from her grasp and looked at her with deep intensity: "So what's gone wrong? If it wasn't that serious, then how can it be infected now?"

Amanda sighed deeply before answering. I was hard to apportion blame to anyone – especially after everything Kirk Fitzpatrick had done to help them in the past two days – but she could easily envisage what must have happened. "It was a high pressure situation." She tried to put it in the kindest, least inflammatory way possible. "There would have been a team of surgeons in with Mark. He had a lot of injuries, Steve – and each of them needed taking care of. But the focus would have been on his arm; on what Jesse was doing..."

Maybe it was her carefully chosen words – but Steve's reaction wasn't at all as she had anticipated. He merely shook his head and let out a bark of humourless laughter, laden with bitterness.

"So Jesse's saving my dad's life and somebody else got distracted." He scrubbed one hand across his face. "So what now?"

"He's in the very best of care." Amanda's reply was almost automatic – she was so relieved that Steve hadn't started throwing blame around again – but that relief was short-lived, when he cut straight to the chase and asked the one question she had been dreading to hear:

"What if the antibiotics don't work?"

"Steve, try not to think the worst..." she tried to implore.

"Not think the worst?" he repeated incredulously. "After everything that's happened, I think 'the worst' is about all I can expect." There was no humour in his voice, only resigned acceptance. "Just tell me."

"I'm sure... I..." But she couldn't lie to him – and the reassurances poised on her lips felt like lies. Instead, she did the only thing she could. She told the truth: "If the antibiotics don't show a noticeable effect in the next twenty-four hours, then he's going to need another operation."

And she tensed, fearing his reaction. This time he did not disappoint her.

"Alright, that's it!" He stood up abruptly, sending his chair clattering to the floor. But it was his words – expostulated overly loudly – that silenced the hushed conversations throughout the cafeteria: "I need to speak to Jesse and I need to speak to him right now."

* * *

Sheriff Derek Harvey sat behind his desk; regarding the young man slumped in the seat opposite him. Since his muttered 'confession', Jesse Travis hadn't spoken a single word – and the Sheriff wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

In his thirty-eight years on the job – in one form of law enforcement or another – he thought he'd seen it all; thought he knew every single trick in the book; but he had never come across – nor even heard of – a situation like this before.

Of course he'd had his fair share of strange confessions. Heck, in his days in Philadelphia and then up in Eugene – before he opted for the quieter life as his retirement approached – whenever a pretty girl was killed, he had wanna-be serial killers practically queuing around the block to confess.

But there had always been a victim; always a crime.

And he had neither.

Of course, he knew that Travis was on the run from LA; but there was nothing on the wires: no APBs, Wants, or Warrants. Yes, there had been a marker on his car – but a marker was just that. It was a 'we want to know if you've seen him'; not a 'he's a murderer, arrest him' kind of resource.

So the confession didn't sit well with the Sheriff – and it sat even more uncomfortably when he recalled the conversation he'd had with the LAPD barely two hours ago.

The man, a Detective Sloan, had been evasive and had left him with more questions than answers. But he did remember the Detective saying that Travis wasn't considered dangerous – a strange statement, considering the man had subsequently admitted to murder.

So Sheriff Harvey merely sat back and waited.

But the doctor didn't crack, as he might have expected. His confession had been of-the-cuff and unforced. No accusation had ever been levelled and there were still no charges for him to face.

The Sheriff had half expected the Doctor to elaborate on his confession during the short car ride back to his office; for him to start ranting and raving – and maybe even saying that the aliens made him do it.

Now that _wouldn't_ have been a first for Derek Harvey.

But only silence prevailed – and it posed him something of a dilemma. He hadn't yet formally arrested Doctor Travis. After all, he didn't have an actual crime to charge him with. And so, for the same reason, the young man sat without handcuffs and – technically – able to walk out at any moment.

If he tried to do that, then the Sheriff wasn't quite sure what he'd do. It would be easy to find some contrived charge to hold him on, but Sheriff Derek Harvey wasn't content with merely holding him.

A mystery had been dropped into his lap – and, as he'd intimated to Detective Sloan that very morning, he didn't like unanswered question; and he liked unsolved mysteries even less.

He allowed the silence to stretch for a few minutes more – during which, to the casual observer, he completely ignored his prisoner. But he was surreptitiously watching the young man – waiting for a nervous twitch; an uncomfortable shift; even a sly glance towards the clock on the wall.

There was nothing and the Sheriff's waning patience thinned into non-existence.

"Do you require legal counsel?" he barked – hoping his shock tactic might provoke a response.

It did, but it wasn't quite the response he'd been hoping for: pale blue eyes were lifted to look briefly at him, but then instantly lowered and returned to their focus-less staring at nothing.

"Doctor Travis, I intend to formally question you..."

And, at the most inopportune moment, the door opened and his receptionist stuck her head in.

"Not now, Shelley." He tried to brush her off with uncharacteristic brusqueness but she persisted:

"But I have a Lieutenant Steve Sloan on the line insisting on speaking to you," Shelley demonstrated her own insistence: "He's from the LAPD and he said it's urgent."

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks for the reviews – and sorry this chapter is a little late in coming; and that it's a little shorter than previous ones.**

**And, to Beth: thank you for your info on BOLO. I must admit I'd never heard of it (so, yes, I used the English equivalent), but it's good to know for future reference.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty.

Sheriff Harvey was looking directly at Jesse when the name 'Steve Sloan' was spoken. He'd glanced briefly at Shelley when she'd first burst in – but then his focus had instantly returned to the young man in front of him.

He'd expected a flinch; maybe a brief flush of guilt – after all, whatever he was running from had clearly happened in LA – but what he got instead was fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear.

His close on forty years in law enforcement kicked to the fore and he – in that instant – knew that he wasn't dealing with anything ordinary. He felt something was about to happen; something that, one day, he'd shake his head and say: 'that never happened to me before'.

But he couldn't go with such a feeling – he could only go with the facts – so he snatched up the phone and barked: "Detective, I spoke to you just a couple of hours ago – but you never said anything about murder."

He kept his eyes fixed on Jesse as he spoke; saw another flinch at the word 'murder' and became more than ever convinced that he wasn't simply going to hand his would-be prisoner over – not until he had more substantial answers, anyway.

But then: _"Murder? There hasn't been a murder. What are you talking about?"_

"Your Doctor Travis just confessed to killing somebody – so, if it's not murder, do you wanna tell me what the hell it is?" He didn't like being kept in the dark – and it was obvious in his tone. As was the fact that he wasn't about to cut some big-shot Los Angeles Detective any slack.

"_But I don't... But he... He's only been gone for two days! What the hell happened?"_Steve's exasperated frustration carried down the phone – and Harvey almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

But he had long since passed his own point of frustration. It was his inherent sense of curiosity – of hating a mystery – that had driven him to a career in law enforcement. He'd always hated the kind of movie that left you with more questions than answers; always skipped to the last page of a novel to see if he'd figured out the 'whodunit'; and he despised any movie, book or TV show that let the bad guy get away – no matter what the reasons.

Now he felt like he was being stonewalled – and he didn't like it one little bit. A mystery had landed in his lap and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

"I know he was running; he told me he killed someone," he snapped – allowing his by now raging frustration to surface: "You wanna talk to him? Well, first, I want some answers."

* * *

Steve stared at the phone almost as though it had turned into a snake in his hand. Horror seeped through him as he listened to the Sheriff's words: Jesse had killed someone?

And the Sheriff himself had sounded incredibly annoyed – which didn't bode well for Jesse, obviously now being held in custody by him.

Fearing anew for his friend, he rapidly replayed the conversations he'd had with Sheriff Harvey – but the memories did little to enlighten him. The stark words were imprinted in the forefront of his mind: Jesse had killed someone.

And he was having a hard time seeing past those words.

Ignoring the Sheriff's demands for answers, he choked out a question of his own: "Was it an accident?" He desperately prayed it was so: "Whoever he killed; please tell me it was..."

"_You don't have a victim?"_ The Sheriff's incredulity carried easily down the phone. _"Detective Sloan, what the hell is going on here? He's confessed to killing someone, but we don't have a victim?"_

A sudden chill swept over Steve as he recalled words about infection; about complications; about possibly needing another operation.

And he knew.

Nausea rose up to assail him – and he was eternally grateful that Amanda had led him to his dad's office before allowing him to place the call.

It meant that the big leather couch was waiting to catch him when he collapsed backwards.

"He didn't kill my dad," he gasped – the understanding having struck him almost like a physical blow.

"_So we're looking at attempted murder?"_ Harvey's voice came back to him – now with a modicum of sympathy, since 'my dad' had been mentioned.

"No!" Steve shouted in response. He still wasn't entirely sure of what was going on – but his need to make things right drove him onwards. "No, there was no crime – and I need to talk to Jesse. Please."

He was trying hard to appeal to the man at the other end of the phone – but he was desperate and frightened and totally terrified for his dad. Maybe something of that carried down the phone.

He heard Sheriff Harvey sigh, heavily:

"_He's sitting right here,"_ The Sheriff managed to sound both begrudging and understanding at the same time. _"I can put you on speaker."_

Steve breathed out a huge sigh – nodding, even though there was no-one else there to see it. He finally had his chance to make things right – if not in person, then at least when Jesse was in a position where he couldn't help but listen.

But that thought stopped his hastily prepared speech before it could even begin. What he had to say to Jesse was intensely private – and not something he wanted to share with Sheriff Harvey.

"Sheriff, please." Again, he tried to implore to the man's better nature. "I need to talk to him in private." He didn't think that what he had to say could be said in front of a dispassionate stranger.

But the Sheriff wasn't about to afford him any favours:

"_He's in my charge – whatever the reasons – and he's not going anywhere."_Harvey's disgruntlement carried easily down the phone – and Steve was forced to wonder what he'd missed.

He felt as though he was being treated like the bad guy – and tried to understand exactly what had happened up in Blackbrook. By the Sheriff's own previous account, Jesse was being treated like some kind of a hero; having saved a child. Then, he'd somehow got it into his head that Mark was dead – and that he was culpable. He'd even confessed... _something_... to the Sheriff.

And that must have been where the problem lay. Their hero had turned out to have feet of clay.

Although, that didn't fully explain the Sheriff's change in attitude towards Steve, himself.

Now, here he was – the bearer of good news; trying to clear up the mess and return Jesse to hero status. And yet Sheriff Harvey was still behaving as though he was the enemy.

He needed to get this straightened out; because he intended to open his heart to Jesse – as it was the only thing that might get through to his often stubborn-minded friend. It was something intensely private; something that might be cheapened by being witnessed by a man who knew so little about them – and who had no idea exactly what was at stake.

"Look, Sheriff." Again he sought to reason with the other man. "I understand that you're confused and I understand that curiosity kind of goes hand in hand with what we do. But it's a long story and..."

"_And I'm not going anywhere, either,"_ the Sheriff retorted down the phone.

* * *

Jesse couldn't help but overhear the Sheriff's side of his conversation with Steve. He didn't intentionally eavesdrop – but only a meter or so of the Sheriff's desk separated them; and the other man – loud simply by nature – made no attempt to keep his voice down; no effort to turn away, or shield his mouth. So he obviously didn't care that Jesse was listening.

So Jesse merely stared at the mahogany wood in front of him – and tried to pretend that he didn't care about what he was hearing.

In reality, his heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as he waited for the Sheriff to end the call and then formally arrest him for murder. He knew what he'd done and thought he'd reconciled to whatever punishment might be meted out to him. But that was before Steve had been on the other end of the phone – and demanding to speak to him.

He couldn't take it: couldn't take Steve yelling any more condemnatory words at him; couldn't bear to hear the actual accusation of him killing his dad; couldn't face the hatred and vitriol that was bound to be forthcoming.

He thought about running. Maybe a bullet in the back – if he tried – might be a humane way to go. Maybe a bullet would be the kindest thing for him – period.

Then he heard the Sheriff say: _'You don't have a victim?'_ and his fleeting thoughts of suicide-by-escape-attempt were abruptly aborted.

It didn't make any sense to him – unless Steve had been trying to remove himself from being so personally involved; had desensitised from the crime; disassociated himself from the victim.

Thinking of his stoic friend insisting on carrying on, in spite of his devastating loss, only served to deepen his already profound guilt.

Jesse made his decision – and it turned out to be a frighteningly easy one. He was going to make a break from the Sheriff's Office – and if the Sheriff tried to stop him as he ran, then it would take deadly force to stop him.

And, if he simply was allowed to go – he hadn't been formally arrested, as he could recall – then... He was a doctor. He knew the most effective – and successful – methods of suicide.

He didn't know when he'd crossed the line from _thinking_ he wanted to die – to _knowing. _But crossed it he had. He knew, without a doubt, that he had to die.

Of course, he'd heard the phrase _'I couldn't live with myself'_ before – but it had always just been a cliché; an over-dramatisation too often spoken when it wasn't truly meant.

'_I couldn't live with myself'_ – to Jesse, the phrase was literal. He couldn't physically carry on with the burden of guilt he had to carry – and he knew it with all of his heart.

He tensed in his seat – not really thinking, but praying that the Sheriff would shoot him when he made his break for freedom. As a doctor – or rather, _former_ doctor, dedicated to saving lives – the very idea of suicide was abhorrent to him. But he would do what he needed to do.

Because, as God was his witness, he couldn't live with himself.

Steeling himself – and already wincing in anticipation that he might well be shot when he ran – Jesse gripped the arms of his chair and prepared to make his escape.

But then Sheriff Harvey spoke one sentence back down the phone: one sentence that, very likely, saved his life: _"So we're looking at attempted murder?"_

Jesse sagged back into his chair as profound relief swept over him – and he didn't even hear any more of the telephone conversation.

Mark wasn't dead – and nothing else mattered. Tears filled his eyes and the depths of his emotions threatened to get the better of him.

Mark wasn't dead – and he found he didn't even care about the future any more. He didn't even consider that it was Steve who the Sheriff was talking to; paid no heed as to the reason for the call. Only one thing mattered to him – and it flashed like a neon sign in his brain:

Mark wasn't dead.

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

**I am truly sorry for the lengthy delay in posting this chapter. Work has been hectic for the past few weeks – and I've had neither the time nor the inspiration to write.**

**This chapter has been a real struggle – so I can only hope that it is up to standard. It was incredibly difficult, for some reason.**

**I'll try to be quicker with updates, but I can't make any promises. Work doesn't look like getting any better any time soon...**

**Thanks for your patience and, especially, for your reviews.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat – and he wondered how he was ever supposed to put the hell of the last few days into mere words. And – at that – words that would explain to a stranger everything they had been through: the extreme and intense emotion; the irrationality; the blame and the guilt; the hatred and self-hate; and so, so many recriminations.

He couldn't put it all into words – because no words could ever describe what he'd been through; what they all had been through. They had been running on emotion and adrenalin and instinct. And he simply couldn't break that down into some sort of monologue that might just convince the decidedly unsympathetic Harvey to offer him some privacy.

But he had to try.

He had to try and dissect it all – or else he wouldn't even get the chance to talk to Jesse.

And he was so close...

He paused at that thought – and almost smiled. So close? Jesse was still in South Oregon and he was still in LA. His dad had taken a turn for the worse – and there was no way on this Earth he was going anywhere. Almost a thousand miles of road separated them – so Steve had to find the right words to say to the Sheriff; and then he might at least have the chance to try and bring Jesse home.

Not usually the most eloquent of men, he tried to find the words – all the while knowing that if he thought _this_ was hard, then it paled by comparison of what he needed to say to Jesse.

Mentally disassociating himself from a man he'd never met and was never likely to meet, he shelved his pride and began to talk:

"The storm – the storm that must have hit you yesterday – hit LA two days ago. There was a car accident and my dad was trapped." He tried to keep his tone calm, detached and dispassionate – like when he was giving evidence in a Court of Law.

He could do it. He'd done it a thousand times before – and such distance made it somehow easier. He'd given testimony in the most heinous crimes – including child killers – and his voice had never wavered.

Unseen by anyone, his brow furrowed and he sought the professionalism – or, as had been suggested, the unhealthy disassociation – that had got him through the most trying of cases.

"Jesse was my dad's doctor." He tried to plough on; tried to maintain his detachment, his stoicism. But it was hard. Trying to relive it – in impersonal and distant words – was bordering on impossible. "My dad... His arm..." He swallowed heavily as those memories slammed back into his brain. "His arm... His chest..." he whispered.

How long had it been since Amanda had last spoken to him? How was his dad doing – even as he wasted his breath trying to reason with the Sheriff?

As much as he wanted – _needed_ – to make his peace with Jesse, his dad would always come first.

And he remembered the reason for the urgency of his call:

"Jesse saved my dad's life," he hissed with sudden intensity. "I blamed him for him losing his arm – but he saved his life. Now he's really sick – and you _have_ to let me talk to Jesse!"

Anger had risen easily to the fore – and he didn't even try to rein it in as he yelled down the phone at Sheriff Harvey. Belatedly, he realised this was not the way to elicit co-operation. But it was too late to revert to his original strategy of appealing to the man's compassionate side.

"_Lieutenant Sloan!"_ The Sheriff barked – the anger in his voice proving what he already knew: Harvey didn't take kindly to demands.

And Steve could only sigh and rub tiredly at his eyes. He honestly didn't know how to get through to the man.

But he did know that he had to keep trying.

"Sheriff..." he began – but was interrupted by a murmured: _"Hold on."_

A pause; then a muted: _"Did you say something, son?"_

Steve fretted, frustrated. The Sheriff was clearly talking to Jesse – but he had no idea what was being said. He was about to rudely interrupt – and thus earn even less credibility with Sheriff Harvey – when the man's voice sounded loudly back down the receiver:

"_I think you might wanna hear this..."_

* * *

Jesse had long since lost all awareness of his surroundings. He wasn't hearing the Sheriff's voice any more; wasn't aware of the continuing telephone conversation; had almost forgotten that Steve was on the other end of the line.

All that mattered to him was the fact that Mark was still alive.

But, even as he basked in the utter relief and downright elation he felt at the news, he still felt trepidation tickling at the back of his mind; nervousness continuing to squirm in his gut. And he remembered the loneliest of nights – sleepless in an anonymous motel room and unable to find out how his dear friend fared.

He still had no answer to that question; still had found no way to contact the hospital and ask for himself; still hadn't found anyone who might fulfil such a task for him.

Then he heard the Sheriff angrily snap: _"Lieutenant Sloan!"_ – and he started back to awareness. The answer to his burning question was right there in front of him. Or, at least, it lay in the hands of Sheriff Harvey.

"How is he..?" he whispered – selfishly praying that his heroics the night before might still be worth _something_. He didn't want to use the fact that he'd saved Millie's life to his advantage – but he wasn't below doing so, either. He needed to know.

The terrifying time when he'd believed Mark was dead still stood out starkly in his memory; and he needed to know that there was no danger of the eventuality coming to pass; he needed to know that Mark was on the road to recovery.

Then the Sheriff said: "Did you say something, son?"

Jesse turned hopeful eyes towards him. Now that he'd been cleared of 'murder', there was a modicum of sympathy in the other man's voice.

"Please," he whispered. "I know Mark isn't dead, but..."

He trailed off as the Sheriff murmured something into the phone. A moment later, he pressed a button and put the receiver down – and Jesse was left frustrated almost to the point of tears.

He'd been so close to finding out how Mark fared; but it seemed as though the Sheriff felt he didn't owe him anything, after all.

It felt strangely like betrayal – even though it had come from a man he barely knew.

"I just need to know how he is," he implored; knowing that the Sheriff could still get hold of that information for him: "I need to know that he's getting better."

"_That's just the problem, Jess. He isn't getting better."_

And Jesse almost fell out of his chair. His heart leapt up into his throat and his chest felt suddenly tight – and he wondered if this was what it was like to have a heart attack.

It had been Steve's voice – coming through the speaker of the telephone – that answered him.

* * *

Amanda sat at Mark's bedside, feeling as though she was wrapped in a shroud of complete and utter hopelessness.

Kirk's prognosis hadn't been the most optimistic – it never was when the word 'hope' was involved – and Mark was looking dreadfully ill. The lines on his face seemed deepened and his features were far from relaxed: twisted and almost pain-filled – even though he was unconscious; held in thrall by painkillers and strong antibiotics.

Amanda reached out to stroke his cheek, forcing herself not to flinch when she felt the unnatural warmth to his skin. Maybe it was the fever causing him to look so pained. But maybe it was also bad dreams of the accident; hurtful memories of what he'd been told about Steve and Jesse; or battling with himself as he fought to come to terms with his new disability.

Or maybe it was a combination of all those things.

Whatever it was, Amanda had to find a way to take those lines away; to take his pain away.

It hurt her deeply – a pain so intense it was all she could do to keep from breaking down – but she stifled her sobs and kept her warm hand against Mark's cheek.

She was, she knew, barely holding herself together. But she had to carry on – she simply had to. Steve was trying to reach Jesse; so that left only her.

Thinking about Steve and Jesse, she again wished for the impossible ability to be in more than one place at a time. She was desperate to know whether Steve had got through to Jesse; whether he'd even been able to talk to him.

And she was desperate to know how any ensuing conversation might have gone. Steve was consumed by guilt over what he'd done – and he'd only had the briefest time to get past that guilt, to forgive Jesse and to seek atonement for what he'd done.

Amanda was under no illusions: Steve Sloan was riding a roller-coaster every bit as wild as any of them. If not more so.

She wanted to be there when – _if_ – he talked to Jesse. She wanted to be sure that Steve's explosive temper, especially when it came to his dad, didn't get the better of him.

She needed to know that Steve could find the words to make Jesse come home.

But she couldn't leave Mark. It didn't matter that he was unconscious, or sleeping. It didn't matter how desperately she wanted to know what was happening elsewhere. She couldn't go and find out.

Because she couldn't remove her hand from Mark's fevered face. Unconscious or not, she simply couldn't leave him alone.

So all she was left with was sitting in silence – and her worry.

* * *

Jesse stared at the telephone – almost as if he had never seen such a contraption in his life before. His head was spinning, as he tried to make sense of what was happening. A cacophony of confused emotions only made this entire situation almost impossible to comprehend.

In just a few short hours, he'd somehow been led to believe that Mark was dead; that he was responsible and would be held accountable. He'd accepted his fate and made the soul-shattering decision to take his own life. And he still didn't know how to feel just to know that he was capable of taking such a decision.

Then the world had tilted on its axis: Mark was alive. The crippling guilt had been replaced by almost incapacitating relief. Mark was alive – and he thought that nothing else could matter.

That was, until he heard Steve's voice. Steve's voice talking to him with concern and not anger. Steve's voice calling him 'Jess' and not spitting out his surname in anger and disgust.

He didn't – couldn't – understand. Mere minutes ago, he'd fully accepted the blame; the same blame which Steve had thrown at him so contemptuously. But now the blame was gone; there hadn't been even a hint of an accusation in his former best friend's voice.

Instead, there had been... Not quite friendliness; his tone had been too filled with worry. But the hatred was definitely gone and Steve had called him Jess...

He was so consumed by this conflict that he barely heard the words Steve actually said.

Then the voice – disembodied through the telephone, but still enshrouded in fear – came again: _"Jesse?"_

"St... Steve..." He somehow managed to stammer past the dryness in his throat. "How..?" He squeezed his eyes shut – angry words and hateful accusations couldn't easily be forgotten; and they returned to him with a vengeance. Fear returned – threatening to paralyse him completely: fear at having to relive the worst moment of his life; fear at hearing all of the hatred spewed at him again; And fear at finding out just what had put such obvious terror into the Detective's tone. Scared himself – though he didn't know why – he could only whisper: "Please..."

"_Jesse, I really don't have the time for this."_

Jesse flinched. Steve was angry again – but, even through the impersonality of a phone line – he knew that the anger wasn't directed at him. It was directed at whatever he'd missed. Whatever had happened since he fled.

"Sorry," he murmured. But he spoke so quietly there was no way his words would carry down the open connection.

Even as he spoke, he lifted his eyes – and they instantly connected with Sheriff Harvey's perplexed gaze. Then the Sheriff smiled, in something akin to sympathy.

"Give him a break, son," he said quietly – clearly mindful of the speakerphone and not wanting to be overheard. "He said his dad's real sick."

In spite of the Sheriff's precautions, Steve obviously overheard him – because the next voice they heard was his: _"That's why I don't have much time, Jess. I don't want to leave dad for too long. He's got an infection and it's bad... He's in a bad way."_

"No!" Jesse couldn't help his startled exclamation. Surely they'd come too far; gone through too much. Mark couldn't succumb to something as mundane as an infection.

Except Jesse knew that he could. It was a very viable and possible danger. One that he had feared might come to pass on more than one occasion over the past two days. And he could only tremblingly wonder what had caused the infection – and how much culpability he yet had to bear.

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

**Thanks, as ever, for your amazing reviews.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Steve instantly regretted snapping at Jesse the second the words left his mouth. After everything that had happened, how was it that he had learnt nothing? And, for almost the first words he said, to be: _'I don't have time for this' _was an utter disaster.

He wanted Jesse back in LA; wanted him to be the one to perform surgery again – should it prove necessary. Jesse was the only person he trusted, when it came to his dad.

But he'd alienated him about a million times over straight after his dad's accident. And now he'd gone and alienated him again.

Even the Sheriff had heard enough in his tone to feel the need to intervene – and that didn't sit well with Steve at all. The man had previously proved to be unhelpful, almost to the point of surliness – and yet, there he was putting in a word for Steve. It spoke volumes about how impatient he must have sounded.

But it also gave him the opening he needed to explain – and to finally try and start vocalising his hastily rehearsed speech; which might just bring Jesse home. For that – and no matter what might have gone before – Steve would be eternally grateful to Sheriff Harvey.

Provided, of course, that he could get through to his friend.

His next words came easily to him. They had nothing to do with what he'd previously rehearsed (or, rather, hashed together in his mind as he waited to finally talk to Jesse); nothing to do with apologising for his prior outburst.

He merely grabbed onto the opening Sheriff Harvey had given to him – and hoped that he could force his way through it. The only way he was going to do that was with the truth.

And he dove straight in with the harshest of truths. The thing that had led to his less than stellar greeting to Jesse; the thing that instilled such utter urgency in him; the thing that still held an icy fist firmly around his heart.

He selfishly hoped it would be enough to shock Jesse; that the young doctor would be bound by his medical training: the Hippocratic Oath and everything it entailed which he knew was as precious as gold to Jesse.

But he had forgotten one very, very important thing – and that was just how fragile his friend was at that moment. And he'd also forgotten to specify which of his dad's wounds had become infected.

He heard a harsh, startled gasp; the heart-rending cry of _'No!'_ then a long pause before a sobbed and broken _'I'm sorry'_.

And Steve knew he'd got it wrong yet again – as far as the young doctor was concerned. He bitterly wondered if he'd ever be capable of getting it right – but, more importantly, he wondered if he'd blown his chance of ever getting through to Jesse.

"Jesse..." he forced the name out through a mouth suddenly too dry. It didn't matter that his attempts to right his wrongs had, thus far, been unequivocally disastrous. He had to keep on trying. He genuinely believed his dad's life depended on it. With such a dramatic thought so prominent in the forefront of his mind, his desperation grew: "Jesse, please! Jess... Can you hear me..?"

"_He can hear you, Lieutenant."_ It was Sheriff Harvey who answered – and Steve's heart sank at the bitter tone to his voice. Then it plummeted right down to his boots when the man added: _"But whether he's listening? That's another matter."_

* * *

Derek Harvey was a compassionate man by nature. As he sat in his office, listening to a mostly one-sided conversation of which he had no part – and no true right to be privy to – his sympathy rose to the fore.

And it rested firmly with the traumatised man seated across the desk from him. It wasn't that he didn't feel bad for the LAPD detective whose dad was lying so gravely ill in the hospital. But that was wherein lay the crux: his father was in the hospital and so, by definition, in the very best of hands.

Travis on the other hand... If ever a person had given credence to the phrase 'a world of hurt' then it was him.

The young doctor was hugging himself tightly and his eyes had taken on a glazed and distant look. But even such distance couldn't hide the utter agony lurking in their depths.

And that was what prompted the bitterness in his tone, when he responded to the desperation in the other man's.

The Detective, it seemed, had the support of the hospital; not to mention his family and friends. The broken young man sitting in front of him appeared to have no-one.

Just a few short hours ago, Travis had been something of a hero – and that still held some stock with Harvey. He'd heard – albeit second-hand – the full story of Millie Logan's rescue. He'd heard about the washout and the makeshift bridge; heard about the family sacrificing everything – everything except a toy stethoscope; the toy that ultimately saved Millie's life; heard about the incredible actions of a total stranger.

He didn't like the fact that the 'stranger' was now looking so besieged – looked traumatised almost to the point of breaking down completely.

Even though he had no idea of exactly what had happened between the two men – separated by about a thousand miles physically and about a million years emotionally – he couldn't just sit back and allow this (whatever _this_ was) to continue. The town of Blackbrook owed Jesse Travis a whole lot better than he was getting.

So he answered when Detective Sloan made a desperate plea for a response. And he answered with compassion and no small amount of pity. He wanted to help Travis – and his gut instinct was telling him that only Steve Sloan would be able to break through the shell of utter devastation currently surrounding the young man.

He heard a bitter sigh in response to his words and was about to suggest that whatever was happening wasn't ever going to be fixed over the telephone – but the Detective's voice cut him off before he could even begin to formulate the words:

"_Sheriff Harvey, please. Will you help me?"_

* * *

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all Steve could come up with. Acutely aware of the passing of time – surely his dad would be settled into his room by now – his desperation was steadily growing as everything he said only seemed to pound another nail into the coffin of his and Jesse's friendship. He smiled humourlessly at the thought. The nails were long in that coffin. Now he was shovelling dirt onto the grave.

But he tried to hold onto the positive; tried not to give up completely because all hope was not yet lost.

Though any such hope was dwindling by the second and getting to see his dad was becoming more and more of a priority – so he came up with his makeshift, half-baked plan and begged Sheriff Harvey to help him.

He almost laughed at the Sheriff's predictable response that he wasn't about to hold a gun to the Doctor's head to force him to listen – as he would have answered in almost the exact same way, should such a request have been made of him. But there was absolutely no humour in the situation and the clock on the wall seemed to be ticking louder and louder; counting down to... what? The time his dad had left as he battled against infection? The last few minutes of his friendship with Jesse, already almost irrevocably damaged but – please God – still salvageable? The moment when Amanda or Kirk came and told him that Mark was being taken to surgery and there would be no way on this Earth Jesse could get back there in time?

It was all about time – and it was a commodity they were rapidly running out of. He had to fix this now, because in his heart of hearts he knew he wouldn't get another chance.

"I know you can't force him to listen," he said, fervently, "but you have to make him _hear_ me. I don't know, hold the phone to his ear or something; turn the volume way up. I don't know." For his part, Steve held onto the telephone so tightly his hand ached and the receiver was clammy and warm against his cheek. But he continued, intensely: "I don't care how you do it – but he has to be able to hear me. Because I am _not_ going to lose my dad. After everything he's been through, everything he's survived, I am not going to stand by and watch him die!" His voice got progressively louder as he allowed his emotions to the fore: "He did not survive that tanker crushing him; did not survive being trapped for hours; did not survive having his arm amputated; did not survive having to come to terms with all of that – just to give in to some Goddamned infection!" Raw agony spiked through him and had him surging to his feet as he yelled the final words into the phone.

Then the adrenaline rush fled him as quickly as it had arisen and he sagged back into his seat, drained and defeated.

"I don't want him to die, Jess." Steve could feel the wetness of tears on his cheeks; could hear them in his own voice. "I don't want him to die. But he was already so weak and now he looks so... so old." He closed his eyes; the fear churning in his gut making him feel physically ill. "Please, God, I don't want him to die."

And then there was only silence.

* * *

As the silence stretched on indeterminably, Steve couldn't help but glance up at the clock on the wall. The time itself was irrelevant – the passage of time was all that mattered. But, as he frowned up at the slowly ticking hands, he realised he had absolutely no idea as to how long he'd been on the phone to Jesse.

And the clock kept ticking – each one seeming louder and louder, until Steve had to fight the urge to take out his gun and shoot the damned thing right off the wall.

But his anger was fleeting and passed almost within a heartbeat – and he was left sitting with his left hand pressed against his forehead; and his right hand gripping the phone much less tightly than he had before.

It was over.

He had nothing left and he had failed.

It was well and truly over.

"I have to go and be with my dad," he said – and his voice was whisper soft. He felt like he was giving up on Jesse, but his dad always had – and always would – come first. The Jesse of old would have understood.

But this wasn't the Jesse of old and he felt the need to elucidate further: "He's so sick, Jess... I just... I need to be with him." He closed his eyes and mentally said goodbye to his best friend. Forever. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He clung onto the phone for a few more precious seconds – but he'd told Jesse the truth. He didn't just _want_ to be with his dad; he _needed_ to be there. He sighed heavily and, with one last regretful look at the receiver, prepared to hang up the phone.

Then, the soft voice carrying even through the still open connection, he heard Jesse say: _"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..." _A hiccough; a soft sob. _"I don't want him to die... I don't want..."_ A louder hitched in breath. _"I don't want to have killed him..."_

Then sounds of heartbreak carried down the phone: hoarse, braying sobs of denial – and Steve knew that he'd screwed up beyond royally. He didn't even bother to mentally replay what he'd said. It was all about what he _hadn't_ said: he still hadn't found a way to tell Jesse where the infection was; still hadn't absolved him of any blame; still hadn't asked him to come home.

The clock ticked over another second – the hand seeming to tremble against the minute hand, before finally continuing its steady progress. And, in that second, Steve had had enough.

Surging back to his feet – with no conscious knowledge of doing so – he yelled into the phone: "Dammit, Jesse, it's not your fault!" And he let all of his rage at the injustice of it all into his tone: "His chest is infected – not his arm! I need you back here, Jesse! My dad needs you back here!"

He heard a soft gasp, then: _"His chest..? He has a chest infection..?"_

Something akin to relief settled in his own chest. Jesse was talking to him – and it wasn't just a sobbed apology. Blinking up at the clock, he explained: "Not a chest infection; but an infection in his chest wound. We need you back here, Jesse. He might need another operation."

Adrenaline had been flowing through Steve, fuelled by fear and hope and desperation – but mostly by hope. He felt like things were really starting to happen; and he was already planning exactly how he'd make things up to Jesse. Maybe a Lakers game; maybe a day of surfing; maybe giving him the code to his pay-per-view.

But then a soft voice scuppered everything: _"I can't."_

Adrenalin driven, Steve lost it completely. Standing abruptly, he flipped the desk clean over. It wasn't enough to satisfy his frustrated rage and so he took it out on the clock: nailing it with a paperweight and knocking it clean off the wall. Finally, lost in a haze of red mist, Steve put his fist through Mark's office door window.

Then he pulled back sharply when he saw Amanda's shocked face on the other side of the broken glass.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

**I take each and every review on board – and I understand this story might not be to everybody's taste. I must admit to feeling a little deflated, but I am still very proud of this story and hope that everyone else continues to enjoy it.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one) they are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Steve, what the hell..?" Amanda couldn't help her startled explanation. She'd barely pulled back in time as the glass from Mark's window came exploding outwards. Panic had accelerated her heartbeat as she wondered what could possibly have happened.

Then she saw Steve: saw the fury in his eyes; saw the blood dripping from his still-clenched fist – and she knew that he'd finally lost it. She didn't – couldn't – blame him. Even she had been on the verge of a breakdown from the moment of Mark's accident. It was no wonder that Steve had finally gone into meltdown.

She just wondered what the final catalyst had been.

Knowing that he'd been trying to reach Jesse, she somehow held onto the hope that the two events weren't too closely related – however unlikely that might be.

Then Steve jerked away from her; his right hand held tightly to his chest – and any further rationale was put to the back of Amanda's mind as her medical training kicked in.

"Steve, let me see." Pushing the broken door open gingerly – but still sending shards of shattered glass tinkling to the linoleum, despite her care – she stepped into Mark's office; her arms held out in supplication just in case the meltdown hadn't fully yet passed.

"You're hurt," she pleaded, softly. "Please, let me see."

She was more than a little surprised when Steve merely looked at her through bleak and empty eyes – and then held his injured hand out to her.

"It's mostly superficial," she murmured, holding his hand in both of hers and peering at it intently. And, for the most part, she was right. Steve had been lucky and there was only one particularly deep cut – close to the knuckle of his index finger – which might require stitches. There were other cuts and a myriad of nicks, but no serious damage seemed to have been done. She offered him a small smile: "What happened?"

Steve merely shook his head and let his chin slump down to his chest – and he breathed one single word, on a heartfelt sigh: "Jesse."

Amanda was suddenly afraid. She knew that Steve had been trying to reach Jesse and now he was so enraged he was bleeding all over her. She wondered what on Earth she'd missed in between those two events.

"Hey, it's okay." Steve – injured as he was – had to come first. His blood was staining her hands.

A passing nurse paused to gape at the shattered ruin of the office door – and Amanda instantly recruited her help. As she fetched gauze and bandages, Amanda allowed her focus to drift.

It was only then that she became aware of the distant, tinny voice issuing from the telephone receiver: _"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?"_

It wasn't a voice she recognised and Amanda hesitated, torn.

She glanced back towards Steve, but he wasn't paying her any attention. The nurse had returned and had guided him to sit down as she carefully wrapped his cut fingers.

Not quite sure what to do, she picked up the telephone – and then she recoiled as the voice yelled in her ear: _"What the hell is going on?"_

* * *

Jesse watched in absolute incomprehension as the Sheriff snatched up the telephone receiver and yelled into it. He'd heard the sudden violence through the speakerphone, but none of it made any sense.

Had something happened to Steve? Worse, had Steve just received bad news about Mark?

Jesse felt sick to his stomach – and not only at the not knowing. He'd been caught on a complete rollercoaster of emotions and still couldn't discern exactly how he was supposed to feel.

At first there had been a fresh onslaught of guilt as Steve spoke of infection – but then yelled words told of an infection in Mark's chest; the need for another operation.

And Jesse panicked:

"_I can't."_

But, even as he said the words, he wondered exactly what he was denying.

Was it his own ability to be able to perform the surgery Steve had demanded of him? His taking hold of a scalpel and cutting into his mentor's flesh – still haunted by the memory of what had happened the last time he'd done such a thing?

Was it his crippling self-doubt as a doctor; in spite of what had happened with Millie Logan?

Was it an entire and horrible combination of these things?

Or was it his absolute and devastating inability to get back there in time?

Steve's voice had been both a balm and a curse: a blessed balm to hear his friend call him 'Jesse' again; to hear that re-ascertain of trust; of him almost pleading for him to go home.

The curse was the thousand miles still separating them; the half-day's drive – time that Mark simply didn't have to spare.

But, before he could elucidate his broken words, there came the sounds of violence: the cry of rage; the crashing; the breaking glass – and Sheriff Harvey, obviously as perplexed as he was, snatched up the phone.

The phone was still on speaker – and Jesse held his breath as the Sheriff demanded to know what was going on.

Then he felt as though he must have stopped breathing entirely when he heard a familiar voice answer.

"_Hello?"_

With a bravado that surprised even him – given that he wasn't entirely sure whether he was under arrest or not – Jesse lunged forwards to grab at the telephone. Their being on speaker had long since lost any relevance. This felt as close as he could get to human contact.

"Amanda?" he practically screamed. A million different scenarios were running through his head, given what he'd just heard – and none of them were good. "Amanda, please!"

He heard her sigh. Could picture the pensive look that must surely be dominating her features – and he held his breath, waiting for her to respond.

"_I don't know, Jesse. I just got here and Steve..." _She trailed off, bewilderment in her tone. _"Did something happen?"_

Jesse felt guilt flare anew as he wondered how Steve had interpreted his whispered _"I can't"_, when even he didn't know exactly what it had meant.

"I don't know..." he lied. He couldn't even begin to explain what had happened – and he needed the answer to a much more pressing question: "Amanda, how's Mark?"

When there was a pause before she answered, Jesse knew that he was not about to receive good news. And his fears were confirmed just a few scant seconds later:

"_He's not too good, Jesse. He has an infection in his chest wound."_ Her worry, her fear, carried eloquently down the phone line. _"Kirk has him on aggressive antibiotics, but... He said he's going to give it twenty-four hours, but..."_

"He can't afford to wait that long." Jesse completed the thought for her – because he knew it was the truth. If an infection had set in so soon after surgery – though there were any number of reasons – some of those reasons rested with the surgeon. "Tell Kirk..."

Jesse trailed off. Wasn't it Kirk Fitzpatrick's face that had risen to look at him when he'd burst into the ER? Wasn't he the surgeon he'd superseded – and pushed away from the life-threatening injury of his destroyed left arm? He would have then focussed on the next surgical need.

The chest wound.

What if Kirk had been distracted by all of that? What if he was still half-concentrating on what Jesse was doing? His radical decision to amputate at the elbow and not the shoulder?

And if Kirk had made a mistake, it would surely be playing on his mind if he had to go back into the Operating Theatre; surely he would be distracted and uncertain. It was a scenario destined to tragedy.

"Amanda..." His mind raced as he tried to think of a surgeon whom he could recommend do the surgery – and he came up a blank. Kirk had been the obvious choice, but he was potentially in the wrong place, mentally and emotionally. And, while there were other skilled surgeons at Community General, none of them knew Mark's history like they did.

Which left only him – and, once it was laid out so starkly in his mind, he found the decision to be an easy one:

"I'll be there, Amanda." He surprised even himself by the conviction in his voice. Everything that had happened – that had haunted him – hadn't simply gone away. But being a doctor was ingrained into who he was.

Millie Logan had proved that when he'd happened across her – and now Mark's need was proving it to him all over again. If he could save a life, then he would do everything in his power to do so.

He never analysed the fear churning in his gut; never thought about the way his hands seemed to have a permanent tremor. He _had _to be there for Mark – even if all he could do was stand back and oversee another surgeon operating on him.

At least he could guarantee there wouldn't be any more complications.

* * *

Jesse moved to hang up the phone – having completely forgotten that he wasn't alone. The Sheriff's strong hand clasping his forearm was a stark and brutal reminder that he wasn't.

The telephone was still on speaker – and it didn't matter that Jesse had been clutching onto it like a lifeline; holding it so close that it left an impression in his cheek. Harvey had clearly listened in on the entire conversation.

"So what do you think you're going to do now?" The Sheriff asked, his features twisted into a scowl. "You think you're going to just get back in your car and drive to LA? Think again."

"What?" Jesse was sure – or as sure as he could be – that he hadn't been arrested, no matter how fuzzy his thinking might have been of late.

He thought about calling the Sheriff's bluff – of simply standing up and walking out of there – but Sheriff Harvey seemed to be one step ahead of him.

"It's a long walk back to LA – and your car's currently in my pound." Harvey regarded him appraisingly, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Why?" Jesse implored. He thought about throwing Millie's rescue into the man's face – but realised it would be futile. Something was clearly bothering the other man – and it didn't take long for him to find out what that 'something' was:

"Look at you. You're exhausted, you're upset and you look like you'd fall over if you even tried to stand up." His eyes dared Jesse to try – and, when he merely looked away, recognising a semblance of truth in those words, Harvey continued: "I won't let you get behind the wheel of a car like this; I won't let you kill yourself or somebody else; I won't have my officers scraping your body off the road because you can't even see straight!"

Jesse sagged in his seat – recognising the logic of the Sheriff's words. But a thousand miles still separated him from Mark. And he needed to be back in LA.

"Sheriff, please..." But his plea was half-hearted; uncertain. The Sheriff's words haunted him; cursed him. He wasn't capable of a thousand mile drive – no more than he was capable of cutting into living flesh.

Then Amanda came to his rescue. Again he'd forgotten that the speakerphone was still connected:

"_I'll come fetch him! I'll come pick him up!" S_he suddenly exclaimed – startling both of them.

Brief hope flared in Jesse – but then it was instantly thwarted, as infernal logic kicked in and he thought about the logistics of her offer:

Eleven hours, minimum, to get there and eleven hours to get back. It was time Mark simply didn't have.

He turned supplicating eyes towards the Sheriff. If he could get his car back, then that time would be cut in half.

"Sir, please. If you knew the whole story...." He tried to reach the man again.

"Save your breath, son I think I got the gist of it." And, for his part, Harvey did sound genuinely regretful. "I'll tell you what, you get a couple of hours rest and then I'll see about releasing your car."

"_Sheriff, we... that is Mark... We just don't have a couple of hours."_

Amanda's voice saved Jesse from even trying to make a decision. He couldn't do as the Sheriff asked, even though he recognised the exhaustion dragging at his senses. He couldn't sleep; couldn't rest – but he could at least give in to the semblance of trying. He held his breath – hoping the Sheriff would respond to the desolate pleading in Amanda's tone, as she continued: _"Please, Jesse needs to come home or Mark might really die."_

Then his hopes were cruelly dashed, as Harvey retorted: "I'm sorry to hear that miss, I truly am. But if you could see Doctor Travis right now then you wouldn't want him getting behind the wheel of a car." He looked at Jesse again – and Jesse flinched from the intensity in his eyes.

"It would be like assisting suicide," the Sheriff went on. "Or assisting vehicular manslaughter, should he kill someone else if he tried to drive in the state that he's in. And I'm sorry, miss, but I'm not prepared to have anybody's blood on my hands. Not when I'm in a position to prevent it."

"_Sheriff..."_ Amanda – to her credit – didn't give up.

But neither did Sheriff Harvey: "Miss, I'm sorry but I'm not about to let your friend drive away from here. I won't have that on my conscience." He softened and added: "Maybe there's a train or a bus..."

Jesse heard Amanda sob in frustration at the Sheriff's words and he almost did the exact same thing himself. Public transport over a thousand miles would mean literally hundreds of stops – and eleven hours would turn into twenty-plus hours.

Jesse silently weighed up every option and came to only one conclusion: Sheriff Harvey had only insisted he rested for a couple of hours – then he would release his car back to him.

It was the best offer they'd had – and would be the most expedient in him getting back to LA.

The trouble was that Jesse knew he still couldn't get back there in time.

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

**I must stress that I did not intend to be discriminatory with my warning – and I am very sorry it has been interpreted that way. I do not think disability is offensive and I do not discriminate against anyone. I was trying to warn people that I was writing about a difficult and emotive subject – and not everybody might approve of the way I was handling it. THAT was where I feared offense – and it seems that's exactly what happened.**

**The warnings have always been there – and please heed those warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

**And sincere thanks to everyone who has reviewed.**

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Defeated, Jesse slumped back into his seat and he didn't make any objection when the Sheriff hung up the phone – finally cutting him off from the drama in LA. It didn't matter. He couldn't be there – and so there was no need for words any more.

"I am sorry, son." The Sheriff's apology was scant consolation and neither was his explanation: "But if you were thinking even remotely clearly, then you'd understand why..."

"I'm not under arrest, am I?" Jesse – tired beyond belief, struggling to maintain his composure and in an emotional world of hurt – felt the simple need to get away.

It wasn't the guilt-fuelled desperation that had driven his flight from LA; it was merely a need to get away from the dispassionate Sheriff – who would never, _could_ never, understand exactly what was at stake.

Mark's life was hanging in the balance – and so was Jesse's.

The young doctor was trying hard not to think about what might have happened had he not fled from Steve's damning accusations; from his devastating hatred. Because he couldn't have stayed; couldn't have seen the loathing and condemnation – which he felt for himself – reflecting from his best friend's eyes.

Not again.

But if the worst did happen and Mark died, then he would never, ever forgive himself – and he knew, without a doubt, that his own life would end in the very same instant.

"No, you're not under arrest." Harvey's voice cut through his bleak musings: "But I'm not prepared to release your car..."

"I know, I know," Jesse sighed. He was thinking about the Sheriff's offer of releasing the car should he get a couple of hours sleep: "I mean, is there a motel or something..?"

"Yeah, there's a motel." Harvey frowned at him. "There's also a hospital – and it seems like you might have come away from there a tad too early."

"I'm okay." Jesse belied his statement by rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "You said two hours and then I could have my car?"

"I said a few hours rest and then I might think about it." Harvey corrected – and then his tone softened. His brow furrowed even deeper and he tilted his head: "Have you thought about flying?"

Jesse's heart leapt for the briefest instant – no, he'd not even considered flying – but then it sank again: "What are the odds there's a flight from..." He trailed off with a shake of his head. He wasn't one hundred percent sure of where he was, much less where the nearest airport was.

"Blackbrook," Harvey supplied. "And we don't have an airport here."

"Then why would you even suggest it?" Jesse demanded, not trying to hide the bitterness in his tone. The Sheriff had previously been as accommodating as he could be expected to be. This sudden streak of seeming sadism was totally out of character.

"Because I never thought of it before, but I know a man who owns a plane – and, sometimes, he's been known to charter it out."

* * *

Amanda sat in disbelief as her conversation with Jesse ended and then the connection was suddenly broken. It felt as though the entire world was conspiring against them – and surely, _surely_, they were due some good luck by now.

But, although Jesse sounded ready to come home, there was no way for him to get there. It was yet another blow and she wasn't sure how many more she could take.

She looked up, intending to talk to Steve – to maybe vent some of her frustrations – but Steve was gone. Amanda frowned and tried to remember where he might be. She recalled the nurse bandaging his hand and wondered if he'd been taken away for the stitches she suspected he needed.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it to be false. Steve had been treated and so there was only one place he would be: with his father.

Fresh tears filled Amanda's eyes as she thought about the last time she'd seen Mark. He'd looked so frail and old; almost fragile.

She wished Jesse could be there. He would know what to do. He was the most confident and competent doctor she'd ever known.

If only he could sprout wings and...

Amanda sat bolt upright – stopping short of actually slapping her forehead as realisation struck.

If only Jesse could fly back to them. And that was something he could most definitely do. There had to be a light airplane, or a helicopter, that they could charter – and she was more than prepared to foot the bill.

It would be a small price to pay for getting Jesse home – and have him there should the need come for him to save Mark's life. Again.

Reaching for the phone, Amanda paused for a split second as she took in the havoc Steve had wrought. The broken window was only the icing: there was also the overturned desk, the scattered files and assorted broken paraphernalia. Mark's office was, quite simply, an utter mess.

In a completely uncharacteristic act of selfishness, Amanda closed her eyes to the destruction. Somebody else could clear it up.

* * *

"What?" Jesse croaked, staring at the Sheriff – even as he mentally kicked himself for not coming up with such an obvious solution. "Why wait until now to tell me?"

Harvey, for his part, looked suitably abashed. Then he tugged at his uniform jacket and sat up straighter in his chair: "I was under the impression you'd committed a crime – possibly a homicide; then I had to dissuade you from your utterly suicidal plan to drive from here to LA. I've got your friends on the phone and I feel like I'm caught up in a soap opera when I've not seen any of the previous episodes. Forgive me if I'm still not up to speed!"

"Sorry... Sorry..." Jesse felt dismay crawl under his skin. The Sheriff was clearly beginning to lose patience – and he was his only ticket out of there.

And, given everything that had happened since his dramatic entrance to Blackbrook hospital, he could fully understand Harvey's attitude.

He could understand it, but he didn't have time for it.

"Sheriff, I'm sorry." His heart was pounding violently in his chest. "Please... It's complicated, but I have to get back to... to Mark..." He stumbled over the name – but then realised that Harvey didn't actually know exactly who Mark was – or what he meant to him. "I have to get back to LA," he amended. "Please, I'll explain everything, but can't you give me the pilot guy's number?"

Jesse recognised the look on the other man's face. It was a look he'd often seen on Mark's face – and also one he'd seen staring back at him from a mirror.

It was the need to resolve a mystery. The need to know.

Confirmation came scant seconds later, when Harvey looked at him appraisingly and said: "I'll call my cousin – and you start talking."

Jesse could have laughed at the twist this 'soap opera' had taken. So the Sheriff's cousin was the pilot. He didn't even know why he was surprised.

"Thank you," he breathed. Then he clasped his hands together, clamped them between his thighs and bowed over as he sought to find the words: "There was an accident," he began.

The Sheriff nodded, the phone now crooked between his shoulder and his ear. He gestured for Jesse to continue – and Jesse almost choked. How could he do this? How could he lay it all out in black and white?

The answer was simple: he had to. He had to because, otherwise, he was going nowhere.

He took a shaky breath: "Mark Sloan was... is... I mean Mark..." He squeezed his eyes shut as tears filled them. Then he could only whisper, again: "There was an accident."

Then he lapsed into silence.

* * *

Amanda had the biggest smile on her face when she hung up the phone – and it felt distinctly out of place; almost alien to her features. She wondered if it was because it had been such a long time since she'd smiled – properly smiled – or if it was because, with so much still hanging in the balance, such a smile might be considered inappropriate.

But she couldn't help herself. Finally something had gone her way: A quick call to 'Information' had her connected to a small, private airfield in Blackbrook itself – and she had secured the charter of a light aircraft to bring Jesse home. When asked what time the flight would be leaving, Amanda had stalled – giving over her credit card details to secure the flight, until she could get hold of Jesse and telling him to haul ass over to the airfield.

As soon as she hung up, she tried Jesse's cell – but, to her dismay, it was still switched off. She wasn't really surprised. Given everything that had happened, it was little wonder it had still slipped his mind.

She left a voicemail anyway – and then tried calling the Sheriff's Office. As far as she knew, Jesse was still there.

When that number turned out to be busy, the smile faltered – but she tried to hold onto her positive mood. Things were still are whole lot better than they had been – and, resolving to retry the Sheriff's Office in no more than ten minutes, she headed up to the ICU to share this latest turn of events with Steve.

However, when she reached Mark's room and looked inside, she knew that nothing she could say would lift the shroud of despondency surrounding Steve. He sat slumped forwards with his forearms resting on his thighs and his uninjured hand clamped tightly around the white bandages of the other. His face was strained and also etched in pain – and Amanda knew he had forsaken any medication the nurse might have offered him.

Shaking her head at his typical stoicism, Amanda knocked lightly on the door to make her presence known and quietly entered.

Steve didn't even look up, but just started talking: "His temperature isn't climbing any more, but it isn't coming down, either. Kirk's worried. He doesn't want to wait until tomorrow. He's talking a matter of hours..."

Suddenly, Amanda's good news didn't seem so good any more. She didn't know how long it took to fly from Blackbrook to LA; didn't know how far the nearest airfield was from the hospital; didn't know how long it would take Jesse to get home to them. Heck, she hadn't even managed to contact Jesse to let him know that he _had_ a way home.

At least that was one problem she could rectify. Resting her hand reassuringly on Steve's shoulder, she murmured: "It'll be okay, Steve..."

Hating herself for not being able to offer any more than such an empty reassurance – but unwilling to make promises she might not be able to keep – Amanda patted his arm ineffectually and exited the room.

She was going to try the Sheriff's Office again – and she wasn't going to stop trying until she spoke to Jesse.

* * *

"Son..."

Jesse looked up as the Sheriff addressed him. He was finding it impossible to recount what had happened to him – and the silence had stretched and stretched. He met Harvey's eyes and saw both compassion and curiosity staring back at him.

"Son, I've tried to be fair with you – and all I've asked is for you to do the same." Harvey shook his head: "My only other option is to point you in the direction of a motel and then release your car when I feel you're fit to drive."

"No!" Jesse sat bolt upright at those words. "No. You said two hours..."

"I'm trying to get you on a flight home now, kid," Harvey replied, with a bemused shake of his head. "I thought the deal was that I got some answers."

Jesse tried to smile and glanced towards the telephone: "You were going to call your cousin," he retorted, albeit somewhat tentatively.

To his relief, the Sheriff let out a bark of incredulous laughter: "That I did, son." And he began to dial.

A second later, he hung up the phone – and Jesse could only stare at him in incredulity.

"It's busy," Harvey explained, a slight frown marring his features: "It's funny, Gilbert's not the type to have his phone ringing off the hook." Those words seemed mostly spoken to himself – then he quickly returned to his professional persona: "I'll try again in a few minutes. While we're waiting..."

The look on Harvey's face told Jesse that he was out of time. He had to explain what happened, if he was ever going to have a hope of going home within the next couple of hours.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he began to talk:

"There was a road accident. A tanker hit a kerb and turned over. Mark Sloan was badly injured. Mark was my friend, my mentor..." He almost faltered, but clamped down hard on his emotions. This was his only way home. "He was badly injured and I amputated his arm. His son blamed me and_ I_ blamed me and I ran away. I came here and then I thought he was dead – but he wasn't and now he's sick and he might die. And I _have_ to get back to him."

The words might have been rushed, the events horribly brushed over – but Jesse prayed he'd said enough. Hardly daring to look, he opened his eyes.

The Sheriff's eyebrows were almost at his hairline and the curiosity in his eyes burned brighter than ever.

"Were you responsible for the accident?" he suddenly asked.

"No!"Jesse responded with utter shock. "No, it was a tanker... Bad weather..."

"I'm just having a hard time seeing where all this blame is coming from." Harvey shook his head. Clearly, the answers he'd received had only left him with more questions – but he held up his side of the bargain. "Let me try calling Gilbert again."

He watched the Sheriff dial without really seeing. The other words the Sheriff had said were nagging at him:

"_...having a hard time seeing where all this blame is coming from.""Were you responsible for the accident?" "...having a hard time seeing where all this blame is coming from."_

And Jesse finally tried to question his own emotions.

He told himself that he'd done nothing wrong; that he'd done his job to the best of his ability; that he'd saved Mark's life. But when he looked down at his hands – his supposedly healing hands – they still trembled.

"Say, son." Harvey's voice cut through his melancholic musings: "You wouldn't happen to know an Amanda Bentley, would you?"

"Amanda?" Terror spiked through Jesse's chest. He didn't know if he could handle something happening to her as well. He sucked in a pained breath: "Is she okay? Please..."

"It's okay, calm down." Harvey was quick to reassure. "I only asked because my cousin thought it was strange: two people looking to fly from here to LA. Both on the same day and at near enough the same time."

Jesse looked at him – torn between hope and disbelief.

And Sheriff Harvey smiled: "Looks like you're going home, son."

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

**I can only apologise for the lengthy delay in updating. Of course, there were the holidays – and I hope everyone had a wonderful time – but work has also gone to hell recently and the weather has been playing havoc with every aspect of my life.**

**Secondly, I need to apologise because this chapter is a little shorter than previous ones (see above for the reasons), but I hope to get back on track very soon – and I hope this is up to standard... Thanks for your patience and, even more, for your reviews and your Private Messages. I'm aware I owe some responses – but, please, bear with me.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Amanda almost cursed in frustration as a voice on the end of the phone told her that Sheriff Harvey had left the office – and she didn't have any idea as to when he might be back.

Amanda then asked after Jesse, without holding out much hope that she'd get a positive response. If the receptionist didn't even know where the Sheriff was then what chance was there?

"Jesse?" the woman exclaimed. "Doctor Jesse? The one who saved Millie? Yes, he's with the Sheriff. I think I heard them talk about him going home?"

"Home?" Amanda repeated, numbly. "How?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but they left ten minutes ago and I can't tell you any more than I already have."

"Alright, thank you." Unseen by the receptionist, Amanda shook her head, completely bemused.

Slamming her finger to the disconnect button, she dialled Jesse's cellphone number by heart – but it went unanswered.

Her shoulders sagging as she realised she was pretty much out of options, she dialled the airfield. If Jesse had found another way home, then the least she could do was inform them. It would save a plane being tied up unnecessarily – reserved for someone who was never going to show up.

Unlike Jesse's cell, this phone was answered on only the second ring and a chirpy voice thanked her for her call.

"Yeah, um... Sorry..." Amanda interrupted the clearly stylised greeting – most likely read from a script. She hadn't reached a receptionist before; but had spoken to a gruff man who had eventually accepted her attempts to reserve a flight. She rubbed at her brow and figured her previous call had just coincided with the woman's break. "I have a booking for a light aircraft, but there was no flight time..."

Then she was abruptly cut off: _"Oh, you're calling about the doctor guy? Derek's on his way over with him now."_

"I'm sorry," Amanda said, faintly. "Derek?"

"_Sheriff Harvey. Sheriff Derek Harvey," _the woman said with impatience – as though expecting Amanda to know who 'Derek' was.

"Oh... Okay," Amanda murmured. "I spoke to him..."

"_He radioed in before and reckons they'll be ready to fly within the hour."_

* * *

"Why are you doing this?" Jesse glanced sidelong at Sheriff Harvey as he asked the question.

To his relief, he was seated in the front of Harvey's patrol car – again paranoid that he might still yet be culpable for something – but the Sheriff's only word to him had been a gruff _c'mon_.

So he was left to wonder why the Sheriff was insisting on driving him to his cousin's airfield. The storm had only recently passed and, surely, the man had more important things to be taking care of.

But Harvey merely returned a sideways look of his own.

"We're about a fifteen minute drive from Gilbert's place and there's still a lot I don't know," he eventually drawled. "You can look out the window, but the scenery don't change much." He settled back in his seat, but his relaxed demeanour was belied by the tension in his features: "We also need to make a stop along the way."

"A stop? No." Jesse's protest was automatic and he never even considered what the stop might be. "No, just let me out and I'll call a cab."

"Three things." The Sheriff shot him another glance: "One, you don't know where the airfield is – so you could hardly direct a cab to it. Two, Gilbert won't be taking you anywhere without the say-so from me – so your cab ride would just be a whole waste of money. And three..." He put his foot down on the accelerator for effect: "I'm not stopping."

Jesse slumped back in his seat and turned his gaze to look out at the passing scenery. Much to his chagrin, it was as monotonous as the Sheriff had suggested it would be.

He heard Harvey mutter: _'I told you so.'_ But he didn't directly press Jesse any further. The ensuing silence fulfilled that task for him.

After only a few minutes, Jesse heaved a heartfelt sigh and began to talk.

He was not at all sure of exactly what he was going to reveal to the Sheriff – but he needed to say something. After all, the man was directly responsible for him being able to go home – even if the trip was seemingly going to be delayed. And he couldn't blame him for his curiosity. It was a trait that they both had in common.

"You said you were having a hard time seeing where all the blame was coming from," he murmured into the silence. "And it's hard... It's impossible..." He paused, not wanting to delve too deeply into self-analysis – worried by what he might find. He aimed to put it in more simplistic terms – for his own benefit more than Harvey's: "But it's like the most important person to you in the whole world; your closest friend or dearest family member; the one you'd do anything or give anything – _anything_ – to help. And then you realise you can't. You have to let them down."

Jesse kept his eyes downcast as he spoke, feeling tears mist. In a strange way, trying to put his feelings into words was having an almost cathartic effect. It was helping him find some sense; some order.

"Mark is... was... He was this larger-than-life character." A smile touched his lips at the absolute truth in that description. "Not only the Head of Internal Medicine at Community General, but a consultant with the LAPD as well. He loves a mystery and has solved more crimes than..." He bit his lip and risked a glance at the Sheriff; realising he was just about to potentially risk insulting the man.

But Harvey had a small smile on his lips, as he responded: "He sounds like quite a guy."

"Yeah, he is." Jesse swallowed heavily. "That's what makes it so hard. I know I did what I had to do, but I also know that I've changed his life forever. I've taken so much away from him..." His voice broke, but he still tried to finish his explanation: "I've wrecked his life and..."

"Hold it, son. You wanna back that up for a second?" Harvey's sudden interruption shocked Jesse – as did the newly emerged harshness in his tone. "Didn't you tell me your friend is still alive?"

"Yes... yes he is..." Jesse stammered; his deeper emotions being thrust aside as he was suddenly made to feel nervous by this abrupt change in the other man's demeanour. "But..."

"But nothing. You said he likes solving mysteries, solving crimes." The Sheriff let his eyes stray from the road long enough to give him an icy stare. "In my experience, that takes intellect and intelligence – maybe some guile and cunning. And Head of Internal Medicine, you said. That sounds like a mostly academic role to me. Am I right?"

"Yes," Jesse answered, faintly. He still didn't know what had happened to change the Sheriff's attitude so dramatically; but he had a feeling he was about to find out. And he was right:

"So do you wanna tell me exactly what it is you think you've taken away from him?" Harvey snapped, demonstrating his agitation by braking too sharply as he turned the next corner. "What, you think because you took his arm you also took away his ability to use his brain?"

"No! No..." Jesse shouted the denial – and then repeated it more softly, as Harvey's words forced him to take a mental step back. Was that what he'd been thinking – even if it was only subconsciously? Because the Sheriff was right. While Mark's life would change – there was no denying that fact – it wouldn't stop. He owed Mark more credit than that – much, much more. If anyone could overcome such an injury and carry on with life, then it was most definitely Mark Sloan.

He had done – and was still doing him – a complete disservice with is recurring belief that he had destroyed Mark's life. And he hadn't even taken a minute to talk to his patient. Instead he had run away.

It shouldn't have taken a man who'd never even met Mark to make him see; to make him understand. Mark Sloan _was_ larger-than-life; as he'd so recently described him. It was in his personality, his character, his very essence. And he would continue to be Mark Sloan for as long as he lived.

Nothing: no accident, or illness, or life changing – but not life _ending_ – injury could ever change that.

Which brought a new fear: Mark still had to overcome his latest infection setback. It was like a physical slap in the face to Jesse.

"Sheriff... I'm sorry..." He slumped back in his seat – a new kind of guilt settling over him. But this was one that he refused to wallow in. This one he could use to his advantage – and use to help Mark. And he owed Sheriff Harvey for making him see: "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Harvey retorted, with a shake of his head. "We're here."

* * *

Amanda couldn't say how long she sat staring at the telephone, long after her call had been disconnected. It felt like just a few minutes; though it might have been hours; but could have been just a few mere seconds.

She had completely lost the ability to track the passage of time. She was lost in the echo of the words she'd just heard:

Jesse was on his way home – and a smile lit her face so brightly, it threatened to split it in two.

She had to share the news with Steve and Mark. Though Mark might be unconscious, she hoped that – on some level – he could still hear her. The subconscious was an immensely powerful thing and the news of Jesse coming home could only be beneficial to his recovery.

She knew he had devastatingly noticed his absence.

As she ran down the corridor – protocol and decorum be damned – she mentally tried to calculate the flight time from Oregon to LA. She didn't have a clue – but figured it was a whole lot less than the half-day's drive time they'd otherwise have to wait for.

Then she neared Mark's room and her footsteps slowed.

Her own excitement had been nearing fever pitch – and she had to calm down. She couldn't go bursting into the room, shouting out her news. She had to remember that it was the ICU she was about to enter.

And she had to find her perspective again.

Jesse was on his way home – but that fact didn't lower Mark's temperature; didn't take away the infection raging within him. Maybe her news could help – but, in the meantime, he was still gravely ill.

Taking a deep breath and striving to maintain control of her breathing, Amanda opened the door and was greeted by the exact same sight she'd so recently left. Steve looked as though he hadn't moved a single muscle – and he didn't even start when she quietly walked in.

But he still knew she was there:

"No change," he muttered; his voice almost lost even in the hush of the room. "No change. What's that supposed to mean? They won't even tell me if he needs the operation or not."

Then Steve did move; reaching up with his bandaged hand, intending to rub at his tired eyes. But he was brought up, sharply, by the pain – and then slumped back into his previous position.

Her priority shifted and Amanda dropped into a crouch at Steve's side.

"Hey, 'no change' is good news," she said, keeping her voice as low as his had been. "It means he hasn't got any worse. And... and, Steve, I've got better news..." She paused, praying that it would still be received as such. Steve had been volatile – to say the least. "Jesse's got a flight home. He's coming home."

She inadvertently looked at Mark as she said those words, but he didn't move; didn't twitch so much as a muscle. But she held on to her prayer that somewhere – even deep in his subconscious – he had heard her.

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. By the way, I'm working 10 straight days now, so there will be a delay in the next update. Apologies in advance.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jesse looked out of the car window and bit back a sigh. If he'd been thinking at all clearly, then he should have guessed what the Sheriff's 'stop' would entail. After all, there weren't too many options.

So he wasn't surprised – dismayed, but not surprised – to find himself outside of Blackbrook Hospital. And it took even a shorter leap of logic to figure out why they were there.

Hunching forwards in his seat, he covered his face with his hands.

"I don't want to do this," he moaned, softly. He knew the reasons – and they weren't so black and white that being here would only delay his returning home.

He didn't want to face Millie's family not because of what he had done for them – but because of what _they_ had done for _him_.

Never mind the details and the intricacies that followed, the outcome was that he had somehow found a way to start questioning his guilt – and to ultimately forgive himself.

So the question was: how did he face the family who had, even inadvertently, made him start living again?

"They want to say thank you." Harvey's voice cut through his introspection and Jesse nodded. Of course they did – it was only natural. But he also felt that, somehow, he owed them a debt of thanks.

It was always going to be an awkward reunion. They were bound to have questions; bound to wonder why he had stumbled across them so fortuitously – and with his emotions still running so close to the surface, it was going to be almost impossible for him to answer those questions.

But Sheriff Harvey seemed determined for the reunion to happen – and he desperately needed the man's cooperation if he was ever going to get home.

As he got out of the car, he was almost overwhelmingly relieved to note that there didn't appear to be any reporters present. Even a hint of publicity might have made him lose his nerve completely.

* * *

In a movie – or possibly only in a fairytale – Mark would have stirred at the sound of Amanda's words.

But this was real life.

The heart monitor maintained its steady rhythm and there wasn't even a hint of movement from the gravely ill man on the bed; not even the slightest reduction of the unhealthy red patches high on his cheeks, set against his too-pale skin.

Steve, however, reacted animatedly. Casting an anguished glance towards his father, he shot to his feet and practically dragged Amanda back out into the corridor.

"What the hell?" he demanded. He remembered, too clearly, the last conversation he'd had with Jesse – if you could describe the contact between them as actual conversation.

It had been disjointed and confused; emotional and misunderstood. It had resulted in Steve's violent outburst – the aftermath of which still burned in his fist, because he was never going to accept a painkiller.

But, in truth, Jesse had ended their fractured communicate by uttering two damning words: _"I can't."_

Now he cursed his impatience and his temper – because, clearly, Amanda had made some progress where he had dismally failed.

And now Amanda's eyes shone as she excitedly answered his somewhat abrupt demand: "I'm not quite sure, but there's an airfield and a private plane – and Jesse's scheduled to leave any time now. He can be home..."

"Two hours." Steve cut her off before she could get too carried away. His own heart was pounding way too fast as it was – and he needed to calm himself down as well as curb her obvious excitement. "He'll be in the air for about two hours. Then there's him trying to get here across town..." He rubbed at his eyes with his good hand. "Amanda, honestly, how much time do we have?"

When he saw her take a deep breath and look at him with badly disguised sympathy, he knew he wasn't going to like her answer.

"Just because Jesse gets here doesn't mean everything's going to be alright," she answered, tears shining brightly in her eyes. "Mark might still need the op..."

"Dammit, Amanda, do you think I don't know that?!" He was angry – insulted – that she thought him capable of believing Jesse's mere presence would make everything alright again.

Then he saw the hurt in her eyes – and he knew that was exactly what he'd done. And he had wronged one of his dearest friends in the process. Again.

He saw what he'd missed: Amanda was excited merely at the prospect of Jesse coming home; of pulling their 'family' back together again; of them battling through Mark's injury together.

He should have looked at it the same way, instead of envisaging Jesse as being some kind of a miracle cure.

"I'm sorry," he murmured – looking at her and making sure the sincerity of the apology shone from his eyes. Then he couldn't prevent his visage becoming helpless.

Fear for his dad had driven his very action – his every emotion – from the moment he'd heard of the accident. And nothing had changed to take away that fear. Instead, things had deteriorated alarmingly.

He just wanted to hear something positive.

Amanda seemed to recognise that need and her responding smile held no recrimination for his outburst. Instead it held only sympathy and understanding:

"The only thing we can do right now is go back inside and talk to Mark. We keep him calm, keep him positive and keep him optimistic."

And Steve nodded his support, because it was what Amanda needed. It didn't matter that a sour voice inside his head sneered: _'as if he can even hear you.'_

It was time he forgot about himself and started doing right by his friends again.

* * *

They were at the back entrance of Blackbrook Hospital; the entrance normally reserved for ambulances and emergencies. But nobody challenged them.

And when people began to pause in what they were doing; to slow down their footsteps and stare in his direction – he knew that it was part of Sheriff Harvey's plan.

Jesse's eyes scanned the surprisingly quiet ER – the ER he had burst into so dramatically, with Millie in his arms – and then he glanced back over his shoulder; impatience and frustration clearly evident on his face.

But Harvey merely ushered him onwards – and, with a sigh, Jesse complied and he soon found himself in a reception area.

He saw Sarah, but she hadn't yet turned to look at him. He saw Millie, but she was pale and half-asleep in her mother's arms. A man – who had to be Sarah's husband – held a gentle arm around her waist.

And then he saw a small boy barrelling towards him, as fast as his legs would carry him.

_Joey._

Unable to help himself – his reaction purely instinctive – he crouched and caught the boy in a hug. Then he was caught in a barrage of chatter.

"Hey, I'm supposed to say thanks – so thanks! But I gotta tell you, it's been amazing. I got a Spiderman duvet – like the one I lost in the bridge – and a Spiderman lunchbox and a Spiderman toy that spins real webs and I got a whole proper costume..."

And Jesse listened with utter humility when he heard what the people of Blackbrook had given to Sarah Logan and her family.

A news crew had made it out to the washout; the destroyed possessions were headline local news – and, within mere hours, almost every lost item had been replaced. And then some.

Jesse couldn't help but smile at the boy's enthusiasm and he ruffled his hair with genuine affection.

"Hey, you deserve..." He trailed off – cut off from telling Joey just how much of a hero he himself had been; not only because of the material sacrifices he'd made, but also the way he'd guided them across the washout.

But the words were lost as Sarah turned towards Jesse – noticing him for the first time – and a suddenly animated Millie wriggled free from her arms.

"Millie!" Sarah tried to call her back, but to no avail. No-one tried to physically stop her – and, before he knew it, she had usurped Joey's place in his attention.

Still caught in a crouch, he couldn't pull away when the little girl threw her arms around him – and he hugged her back with an enthusiasm he could hardly explain.

He didn't want this; had, in fact, shied away from this – but, now it had been forced upon him, it was a truly wonderful feeling.

When he felt a warm hand drop onto his shoulder, he looked up. Instead of seeing Sarah, he looked up into Sarah's husband's face. He vaguely recalled being told that the man's name was Craig.

"Doctor Travis, thank you," the man said – tears brimming in his eyes.

Jesse slowly stood up. A part of him wanted to refute the title of 'Doctor'; but that part of him – the part that had blamed and hated and raged against his conscience – was gradually being silenced: buried by what the Sheriff had said; by his telephone call with Amanda; even by his ultimately disastrous conversation with Steve.

So, grasping Millie's hand when it quested against his, he smiled – and used his free hand to shake Craig's as it was proffered.

Wasn't this why he had become a doctor? Not for the gratitude or the accolades; but for the profound act of saving a person's life.

He was under no illusions. Millie Logan would have died had it not been for him – and it didn't matter what he chose to call himself. A doctor wasn't merely _what_ he was; it was _who_ he was – even if he had tried to forget it for a while.

'Doctor' was a mere title – but it was a title he had earned; and one he should always carry with pride.

"Mr Logan, I..." Jesse looked down, abashed. He had never been comfortable when it came to gratitude. "I'm just happy I could help."

"Seriously, thank you." The man was in danger of being overcome with emotion – and Jesse's own eyes filled with tears. He remembered Millie when he first saw her; remembered his own terror that she might die – and the child had been a stranger to him.

She was this man's daughter, so surely he was allowed this display of emotion.

Jesse's response was to gently remove Millie's hand from its now clammy grasp of his own and gently place it in her father's.

"I have to go," Jesse said. And, though this moment had been somehow worth the delay – if ever anything could make it worth it – the time was still ticking away. This family would be fine. His own 'family' might not.

"Doctor Travis, if you ever need anything – and I mean _anything_ – please..." And Craig reached into his pocket to pull out a business card.

"Jesse!"

The young doctor turned at the shout – and then felt suddenly overwhelmed as Sarah caught him in an almost bone-crushing hug. He hugged her back, but it was somewhat perfunctory as the need to get away began to press heavily on him.

"I need to go..." he stammered. "I..."

"Doctor Travis has a plane to catch." Sheriff Harvey suddenly stepped into the fray; calm and matter-of-fact.

Jesse was immeasurably grateful. He couldn't even fathom how he might have extracted himself without his help.

There were more hugs and handshakes – but Jesse finally made his escape. But there was one more person waiting for him at the exit.

"Good luck, Doctor Travis," Doctor Grayson said.

Jesse smiled and nodded and followed the Sheriff out to his car. Hopefully, the airfield wasn't too far away.

* * *

Steve preceded Amanda back into Mark's room – but he hung back and let her take the only chair. It was hard and plastic and uncomfortable – but Amanda eased gracefully into it and smiled down at Mark.

Steve settled his uninjured hand onto her shoulder and let her take the lead. After all, it seemed she was a whole lot better at this than he was – whatever exactly 'this' was.

But, before she could even say a word, a gentle knock on the door preceded it opening just far enough for Cheryl to poke her head into the room.

"Sorry, but have you got a minute?" she asked – and, somewhat surprisingly, the request seemed to be directed at both of them.

Steve had fully expected her to be there to see him – to talk about some mundane work matter; or, worse, to tell him he was needed back on duty. In either case, he had no intention of listening to her. But when Amanda was also included, they both acquiesced – and they both wore puzzled frowns as they stepped back out into the corridor.

"Sorry." Cheryl said again and then added: "How's he doing?"

"No change." Steve's response was automatic, distracted. A bad feeling was beginning to crawl in the pit of his stomach and it wasn't helped by the expression on his partner's face. Cheryl looked nervous and uncomfortable – and she couldn't seem to meet the eyes of either one of them. So, as was his wont, Steve cut straight to the chase: "What's going on?"

"Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but..." She held her cellphone in one hand and gestured with it – as though _it_ was the cause of what ever misery she was about to impart. "But Jesse's credit card has just been used to charter a plane."

"Wait..." Steve began.

But he was interrupted as Amanda blurted out: "That's impossible!"

Cheryl clearly misunderstood and shot the pathologist an apologetic glance: "I've not followed it up yet, but it's going to be hard to get a destination without making it all somehow official and..."

"No! No, you don't understand. We know about the flight. It's bringing Jesse home." Amanda's eyes were bright as she said those words. Bright with hope and happiness – but there was also a hint of indignation to her tone. "And I've already paid for it!"

The three of them exchanged glances and there was a murmur of nervous, relieved laughter.

"It doesn't matter," Amanda added. "Let them get paid twice. It's money well spent."

"Call them," Steve admonished, mildly.

"I will... Later," Amanda grinned back at him, before disappearing back into Mark's room.

Steve watched her go – with a twinge of envy that he couldn't quite so easily return to his dad's side. But there was one more thing he had to do:

"Cheryl, how did you know about the credit card charge?" he asked – already knowing the answer, as he remembered a conversation he thought had been designed merely to cheer him up. Now, it seemed his partner had taken their theories one step further. Maybe a step too far.

Cheryl looked back at him with unmistakable guilt – her hand had definitely been caught in the cookie jar – but there was also a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"I called and told them that he was a missing person we were trying to trace," she finally explained. "Which, at the time, was true. There won't be any comeback."

Steve nodded and inwardly praised Cheryl for what she'd done. If Jesse's car hadn't already been traced, then this would have been one hell of a lead.

"Thanks," he smiled. And then went back in to join Amanda at his father's bedside.

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

**Thanks for the reviews. **

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

To Jesse's immense relief, they were at the small airfield in less than ten minutes. The drive passed in complete silence – with neither man showing any inclination to instigate a conversation.

Jesse, for his part, was reflecting on what he was leaving behind and, more importantly, what he was heading home to. The Logan family had happy endings all round. Not only was Millie clearly going to be fine, but the town had rallied and their every lost possession had been replaced. All they'd been left with was an adventure to tell. Things couldn't have worked out more perfectly for them.

And, though he would never wish ill-will on anybody, that thought niggled uncomfortably in the back of his head. Life was seldom perfect.

With more than a hint of paranoia – for which he could scarcely be blamed – he feared that bad news was waiting for him just around the next corner and he waited for the next bitter blow to be struck.

He was almost surprised when they arrived at the airfield without incident – and then he was most definitely not surprised when he followed Harvey into the small office and the secretary frowned when he handed over his credit card to pay for his flight.

It didn't matter that the woman had barely glanced at his card, much less tired to process it. He just saw it as an obstacle placed in his way – another delay he couldn't afford.

But then the woman smiled and explained: "The flight's already paid for. A Miss..." She glanced down: "Miss Bentley chartered the flight with instruction to..."

"No! No, stop."

Jesse simply couldn't let Amanda pay. He was the one who had run away; who had stranded himself thousands of miles from home. But what she had done still warmed his heart – and made him dare to believe that he might yet be able to pick up the shattered pieces of his life. Not just his life – he amended – but all of their lives.

Most especially Mark's.

"Please use mine," he insisted, thrusting his hands stubbornly into his pockets when she tried to hand his credit card back to him. "Please."

With a shrug and a smile, the flight was paid for and Jesse almost ran from the office. He'd seen a small plane – its propellers idling – when they'd first pulled in. It was less than a hundred yards away.

Then Sheriff Harvey snagged his arm:

"Do me a favour kid – do yourself a favour – and try to get some rest while you're in the air. And don't talk to Gilbert about what you're flying home to. His wife lost a leg to diabetes some years ago." He paused – and Jesse thought he might have seen a wink – then: "She's still the best bridge player in the whole County."

Jesse nodded with renewed chagrin. The Sheriff had taught him a valuable lesson – albeit one he didn't even know he'd needed teaching. And it was a lesson he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

He went to shake the man's hand, but Harvey hadn't quite finished:

"Don't worry about your car. It'll be safe in the pound 'til you can come fetch it." He quirked a smile at Jesse: "I might even waive the $20 a day impound fee."

Jesse laughed out loud at that – a laugh born of relief and incredulity and the fact that he didn't give a damn about money – and then he was finally was able to shake the hand of the man who had somehow allowed him to get his life back on track.

Then he raced over to where the light aircraft waited.

* * *

Amanda watched with tight-lipped anxiety as Kirk Fitzpatrick leant over Mark's bed and conducted a thorough examination. Steve hovered nearby, but she successfully tuned him out; focussing solely and intensely on what Kirk was doing.

Though there had been no visible deterioration of Mark's condition, there hadn't been any noticeable sign of improvement either. It all came down to his temperature and the fever still gripping him.

Amanda knew it was no longer relevant that his temperature was no longer rising. They needed it to start falling – and the longer it remained so dangerously high, the more likely it was he would need further surgery.

And they were surely drawing very close to that deadline now.

She dragged her eyes away from Mark's supine form and focussed on his doctor – but what she saw in Kirk's face shook her to her very core:

Kirk wasn't Jesse Travis; but he was a highly skilled and competent young doctor. However, at that moment in time, he looked neither.

In fact, he looked scared.

Amanda wanted her heart to go out to him; wanted to offer reassurance and empathy – but they didn't have the time for such niceness.

Mark's life was hanging in the balance and they simply didn't have time for Kirk to have a crisis of confidence. Yes, he had been in the OR; and, yes, he might have operated on Mark's chest wound – the wound that was now infected; but he was still Mark's doctor and he needed to put all of his insecurities to one side.

She knew how difficult – how nigh on impossible – an ask it was but she had to make him find his professionalism again.

"Kirk," she said quietly – not wanting to alert Steve to the fact that she might be harbouring any concerns. "You need to make a decision."

Then Kirk looked up at her and she saw something close to fear on his features.

"I think..." he began – but then just shook his head.

"Kirk!" she hissed, grasping hold of his arm as he went to make a notation on Mark's chart.

To his immense credit, Kirk stopped what he was doing and looked her square in the eye:

"He's holding his own," he said. "And I don't want to operate unless I absolutely have to..." But his voice still wasn't quite steady when he added: "Right now, I don't have to."

Amanda nodded and offered him a small smile. Though his words were the best they could hope for, she couldn't help but fear that Kirk might still be reacting to his own insecurities.

* * *

Close to four hours after taking off from Blackbrook, Jesse stood outside Community General. The flight had been smooth and quiet, with Jesse following the Sheriff's advice and catching up on his much needed sleep.

Gilbert didn't seem to mind. After a brief handshake of greeting, the pilot virtually ignored his young passenger and seemed content to let him rest.

When they landed, Jesse was immeasurably grateful. The flight had been uneventful and on time – and he almost dared to feel a stirring of optimism.

He was home – and he had slept without nightmares. Whilst he was a long way removed from being fully rested, he felt a whole lot better than he had before.

Farewells were brief – and, minutes later, Jesse was left feeling thankful for Gilbert all over again; as the taxi driver he procured didn't seem to know the meaning of discretion. The man yammered incessantly – about anything and everything – and never once picked up on the fact that his passenger remained silent throughout their journey.

And, with typical irony – as far as Jesse was concerned – the drive lasted almost as long as the flight from Oregon had.

"They do the road works in the day; they put the diversions in and the guys with the Stop signs..." The driver had lamented: "They like their power-trip and I'll tell ya, they hate cabs. And the broken down bus on the bridge? They overheat y'know. Not maintained right. Not like my car. You cool enough back there?"

To Jesse, even though he did his best to tune the driver out, it felt like it lasted twice as long.

Then he'd paid the driver – even afforded him a generous tip – and found himself standing on the street outside the hospital, trying to find the courage to go in.

He felt like an interloper – even though this was his place of work; but it still felt somehow _wrong_ to merely step through the doors as though he'd never been away.

Absurdly, it crossed his mind that maybe he should call someone and let them know he was back – and so he stood indecisively on the street.

How would he be received? Phone calls from thousands of miles away were one thing, but he couldn't help but remember the last time he had stood face to face with his friends.

With Steve.

He knew that Mark was desperately ill – and the only two people he'd even consider calling were sure to be at his bedside. He wasn't about to disturb either one of them.

So Jesse took a deep breath and stepped through the doors of Community General.

It was almost anti-climactic to begin with. A few faces turned in his direction – from people in the waiting room – and then looked away again.

They didn't know who he was; and they all had their own dramas to deal with.

Then he heard a gasp and looked up to see the admissions nurse staring openly at him – and she had the biggest smile on her face.

Jesse offered her only a half-smile in response. He wanted to ask where Mark was, but his mouth was suddenly dry and all he could do was gesture helplessly with his hands.

"ICU," the nurse mouthed – the smile suddenly disappearing from her face. Everyone in the hospital knew how grave Mark's condition was.

And Jesse could only nod in return. It was exactly what he'd expected.

He'd also expected the often sympathetic, often welcoming, often supportive looks he received as he made his way through the hospital.

What he didn't expect was to arrive at the ICU to scenes of near-on chaos.

It was controlled chaos – and scenes he instantly recognised:

An alarm; a flashing light; an urgent shout of "Code Blue"; the rattle of a trolley; the slam of doors opening and then swinging closed again.

Silence descended – even though Jesse knew that behind the now closed door a kind of organised chaos still reigned.

But he was left standing in the corridor, with his heart in his mouth and fear coursing through his every pore.

He knew there was more than one patient in the ICU; knew there might have been a dozen patients enhoused on this floor. But he also knew – with sickness roiling in his gut – that he had arrived mere seconds too late.

The 'Code Blue' had been for Mark. He just knew it.

Jesse backed up until he felt the solidity of a wall behind him. His palms were pressed firmly against the cool plaster as he stared unblinkingly at the door opposite him.

In the silence now enshrouding the corridor – he could only hear the shrill monotone of a flat-line.

* * *

'_Move!' _Jesse silently commanded himself: _'It's not too late!' _

He'd arrived just in time to hear the shriek of the heart monitor; which meant Mark's heart had only just stopped.

There was still hope – still the chance to resuscitate.

Jesse pushed himself away from the wall, even as he felt tears fill his eyes.

'_There's still time!' _He tried to insist. But, even though the words were spoken only in his head, they still sounded like a desperate plea.

Jesse was beyond scared – he was terrified – and, no matter how hard he willed himself to move, to go into that room and try to save Mark's life, his feet remained seemingly stuck to the floor.

It was too much like the last time. Even though it wasn't the OR he'd be bursting into and taking over, it was still Mark's life hanging in the balance.

And as that thought crossed his mind, bitter memories surged back to torment him anew.

He wasn't ready for this; wasn't ready to step back into the breach and be the hero everyone needed him to be. Not when a small, vicious voice kept trying to insist that the last time he'd tried to help his mentor, he had failed him in the most drastic of ways.

He knew the voice was wrong and tried to hold onto everything positive he'd been told – and thought he'd come to accept: The Sheriff, Amanda and even Steve.

The blame was gone and he'd believed them all to such an extent that he'd come home.

So why was he now feeling sick to his stomach – and too afraid to move, in case he failed.

'_Again...' _the voice whispered.

Because the heart monitor was still screaming and the minutes were ticking by. And by standing doing nothing, he was failing – because Mark was dying behind that closed door.

Jesse clenched his fists and took a deep breath. He had to try, because it couldn't end like this – not after everything they had all been through. And he needed to do more than just try. He _had_ to succeed – because if he failed and Mark died, then he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be his fault. His fault for running way.

No words would ever take that blame away.

"Jesse!" A voice practically screaming his name had him turning, more by instinct than any conscious thought – and then he was almost bowled over as he was caught in a ferocious, breath-stealing hug.

"Jesse! Oh my God, Jesse!"

Recovering quickly, Jesse looked at Amanda. She was hugging him and crying – but her tears were belied by the biggest smile on her face.

"A... Amanda?" he stammered, his eyes turning back to the door behind which he was convinced Mark lay. Even as he watched, it opened and a nurse stepped out; her eyes downcast. A Doctor followed, stripping off surgical gloves and shaking his head sadly. Behind them, the heart monitor had finally gone silent.

"Thank God you're home," Amanda almost sobbed. "Thank God." She looked up at him through tear-bright eyes. "We need you, Jesse. Mark needs you."

Only the fact that somebody had just died in the room which had so held his attention prevented him from punching the air as both joy and relief coursed through him.

Mark was alive. He'd been given a second chance and he was determined not to blow it.

There was not even a hint of hesitation in his steps as he followed Amanda to where Mark lay.

TBC


	28. Chapter 28

**Thanks to everyone who continues to read and review. **

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Amanda didn't know exactly what it was that made her leave Mark's bedside. If she'd been asked – even just a few minutes before she left – she would have sworn wild horses wouldn't have dragged her away.

But Steve was sitting as motionless as a statue; his terror etched on his face – a clear sign of how much he was hurting, because he wasn't even trying to hide it from her any more.

And Mark...

Mark's stillness was more like death; with the blankets enshrouding him making it hard to discern the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The fleeting thought involuntarily crossed Amanda's mind that it was only because she spent her professional life working with corpses, she could see the difference.

And then she had found herself out in the corridor – maybe looking to find some brief respite; to escape from her pessimism. Maybe thinking about tracking down Kirk – in going one step further than her impromptu pep-talk and finding some way to instil real confidence back into the young doctor; so _she_ could have confidence in his decision making.

Whatever the reason – and maybe it was simple fate – she was there and she saw Jesse; and after that she couldn't help her reaction.

She tried to hold onto her precautionary feelings – those which she had tried to make Steve understand: just because Jesse was home again wouldn't magically make everything alright. Whilst their young friend was an excellent doctor, he wasn't a miracle worker – and Mark was still desperately ill.

But, in spite of the effort, her pessimism was pushed to one side and she felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her smile was unrestrained and the tears in her eyes were born of genuine joy.

Amanda barely even noticed Jesse's own somewhat stunned reaction; the shell-shocked expression on his face – putting it all down to exhaustion, or stress, or his inevitably intense emotions at being home again.

She didn't mean to pile further pressure on him; didn't intend to weigh him down with her fear and desperation – but the words came out almost of their own accord.

To his credit – and to her utter relief – Jesse didn't shy away from her plea; but strode purposefully down the corridor, almost as though he'd never been away.

* * *

It wasn't far to Mark's hospital room.

Not far enough for Jesse to really start thinking straight; not far enough for him to fully adjust to the fact that Mark was still alive, after truly believing he'd got there mere seconds too late to save him; not far enough to think about options and treatments – and what Mark's chances really were.

But it was far enough for trepidation to start flapping butterfly wings in his stomach.

It wasn't about Mark; wasn't about any fear of failure.

But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Steve would be camped out at his dad's bedside – and he didn't have a clue as to what he might say to Steve. Or how he would be received.

Their telephone conversation had been stilted, awkward and – most importantly – interrupted. Jesse could understand the angry words. They were fully justifiable, given the circumstances. But he couldn't understand how Steve had, ultimately, exploded into violence.

And he couldn't understand how much he was to blame for it.

So his heart began to pound and his gut began to crawl – and he felt saliva flood into his mouth, which still managed to somehow feel too dry.

But his steps never faltered – not even when Amanda's hand quested against, and then clutched, his fingers. He responded with a reassuring squeeze – and tried to inject confidence into the smile he offered her.

Then the door loomed large in his vision and his smile faded, even as his hand fell free of hers.

Confidence fled and he realised it wasn't just Steve he feared seeing again. He remembered how he'd last seen Mark: looking in at him through the window of a Recovery Room; despairing over how grey and old and sick he looked.

Jesse didn't want to open that door and see Mark looking even worse.

Amanda took the decision away from him. Offering a small smile – and with hope in her eyes – she reached for the door handle.

Jesse twitched a nervous smile back at her even as he realised – with terror starting to pulse through his veins – he wasn't at all ready for this. His confidence was misplaced: born of a friend at his side and his now surreal-feeling experience with Millie Logan. He wasn't ready for potential conflict or confrontation; wasn't prepared to face the monumental responsibility of taking over Mark's care; of saving his life.

But, in the next second, it didn't matter what he was feeling. And it was too late to shy away.

Amanda opened the door and Jesse, almost involuntarily, stepped into the room. He saw Steve turn his head – and then, with an almost double-take, shoot to his feet.

It took everything Jesse had not to take a step back.

But then Steve looked at him and his eyes were desperate, pleading. And he said just two words:

"Jesse, please."

* * *

Jesse could only stare at Steve. Maybe he was expecting an apology or an explanation. Maybe he was still expecting some sort of atonement.

And maybe Steve was expecting something from him in return.

There was so much that needed to be said, by both of them, but now was not the time for either of them to say it.

He nodded at Steve, offered him a small smile – and then, without waiting to see how his greeting was received, he scooped Mark's chart from the foot of his bed.

His brow furrowed as he read the notations; but the frown wasn't brought about by any mistakes that had been made. It was because Mark's treatment had followed almost the exact same course he would have taken.

And it clearly hadn't worked.

He looked at the doses and levels of antibiotics; looked at the samples taken and the tests run – and he saw nothing untoward.

What he did see was the dangerously high temperature which refused to yield; he saw the need for a further operation to find out what had caused the infection; he saw himself trying o explain how dangerous such a procedure would be – and how high Mark's mortality risk would be.

His shoulders sagged and he wondered how he could find the strength to lift his head and turn to face Amanda and Steve.

Seeking to delay that unenviable task, he looked instead at Mark.

Mark Sloan who rollerbladed through the corridors of Community General; who dressed up as a clown and made teddy bear pancakes; who saved lives and solved murders; who defied the odds and achieved the impossible seemingly on a daily basis.

Mark had previously saved Jesse's career, his sanity and his very life – and now Jesse was floundering to find any way to reciprocate.

His eyes fell to the bandages around his chest – behind which the infection raged; unaffected by antibiotics and taking a devastating toll on his very life. The dressings were white and perfect and gave no clue as to the potential death they concealed.

His eyes narrowed and his heart began to race. The memory of Mark in Recovery was imprinted into his brain and...

His arm was definitely different: re-bandaged, he knew, because his had been the hands to apply the original dressing; his pallor was different: no longer merely pale, but with an unhealthy flush painting rouge on his cheekbones; his hair was different: pushed up and unruly, when a fresh bandage had been applied with less than perfect care.

But the chest wound looked the same.

Jesse's eyes narrowed further. There was the same curl of bandage underneath his right armpit, the same fray just below his breastbone. The crisscrossed dressing swathed exactly as it did in his mind's eye.

Just to be sure, he picked up the chart again – but it did little to enlighten him. Drugs and treatments were listed, but something as routine as changing a dressing wasn't worthy of a notation.

Instead, he looked to Amanda for enlightenment.

"Did Kirk check the wound?" he asked; almost feeling foolish for asking it. Surely the site of the infection would be the first check made. But his eyes and his memory were telling him otherwise.

"No." Amanda answered instantly and emphatically. "Kirk didn't want to risk exposing the wound to further possible contamination. The dressing looked clean and he saw no need to risk further trauma to the wound."

Jesse nodded, somewhat distractedly. The explanation made perfect sense – and the reasons were even justifiable; but they were also, potentially, a dangerous mistake. Maybe it would have been Kirk's next move – but maybe the other doctor was still feeling insecure and so was second-guessing himself. It was somewhat understandable; but his indecision had the potential for deadly consequences.

And, most importantly, maybe they had delayed too long already.

"Amanda, we need gloves and masks," he said, recognising the risks Kirk had identified. "And Steve..." He glanced back over his shoulder – and the words that the detective needed to leave died on his lips. He had never seen his friend looking so terrified and helpless. He didn't have the heart to try and make him wait outside: "Steve, you'll need a mask and a gown. And you'll need to stay out of the way."

Supplies were on hand within minutes and Jesse didn't even wait to see if everyone else was kitted up properly. He needed to do this quickly – whilst he still had control of the trembling that had so recently besieged his hands.

"Scissors," he ordered tersely and a split-second later, their weight was in his palm. He cut assuredly through the dressings and then carefully eased the bandages away.

"God," he hissed.

* * *

Steve watched the latest turn of events with an indescribable sense of horror and incomprehension.

He'd got to his feet when Jesse had entered the room; a million thoughts ricocheting around his head; and a million and one words needing to be said. But only two escaped:

"_Jesse, please."_

And the next thing he knew, Amanda was pushing his arms through the sleeves of a paper gown and fixing a sterile mask to his face. He was pushed to the back of the room and, when Amanda's slight form threatened to obscure his vision, he shifted constantly from one foot to the other.

Panicked prayers were a consistent litany running through his brain and his own breathing was harsh and shallow as he watched Jesse take a pair of scissors and cut through the bandages swathing his dad's chest.

His palms pressed firmly against the coolness of the wall – but it didn't prevent his heart from pounding and the blood beginning to roar in his ears.

Now he was starting to understand why he wasn't allowed to wait in the room at times such as these. It was too much – too much to see the bandages fall away, exposing the red raw wound; too much to see the intense and focussed activity that followed. It looked like chaos to his untrained eye, but they kept on working in spite of him – and his barely repressed panic.

Steve's eyes locked on Jesse's back and he knew why, on this occasion, he hadn't been forced back out into the corridor. Their eyes had met for the briefest of instances – and what Steve had seen had been impossible to decipher. There had been hope warring with despair; doubt fighting against optimism; purgatory battling with the need for forgiveness.

But he knew, without a doubt, that Jesse simply couldn't turn him away; not after everything they had gone through.

It was one more thing he owed to Jesse: his business partner, his best friend... The man he'd treated unforgivably and had yet still returned to try and save his dad's life.

Some of those million and one words suddenly sprung to the forefront of Steve's mind:

He tried to speak from the heart, knowing that no apology could ever be enough: "Jesse, you can't possibly know..."

The last thing he expected was a tight and dismissive response of: "Not now, Steve!"

It spoke volumes of the seriousness of his dad's condition, because Jesse never even turned his head when he spoke.

Steve collapsed back against the wall and tried to calm the pounding of his heart.

"_I'm sorry. I was out of line. I was scared. No, I was terrified. I lashed out. I was wrong. I thought he was going to die."_

The words were all there, but now was not the time to say them. Jesse had made that abundantly clear – even as he battled again to save his dad's life. Of course Jesse was right and his timing was all wrong – but he was almost desperate to make some sort of amends.

Especially now because, in spite of everything, Jesse had come through for them. He was there, where he was needed and – more importantly – _when_ he was needed.

And Steve still hadn't found the way to apologise – or to say thank you. But, for now, the words had to remain locked in his throat threatening to choke him as the feverish work continued around his dad's bed.

And he was left only with his own fears which held a paralysing grip around his heart – and he almost, _almost,_ wished he'd been made to wait outside.

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

**Please accept my apology for the delay in updating. Thanks to everyone who continues to read and review. **

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Amanda heard Jesse's soft exclamation, even as the same reaction crossed her mind. The bandages fell away to reveal a wound that didn't even remotely look like it was healing properly. Instead, it was red and raw – and white pus bubbled through a gaping split in the sutures.

No wonder the infection wasn't being suppressed. It had been running, unchecked, underneath Mark's bandages.

She shook her head, wondering how the stitches hadn't held – and why she hadn't insisted on Kirk checking the actual wound site.

Guilt flared within her – even as another part of her brain tried to shy away from blaming the doctor whose responsibility it actually was.

Kirk had been a rock for them: putting himself, albeit reluctantly, into Jesse's usual role and trying to hold them all together. He'd faced down Steve's anger and had held her in her grief.

He had gone above and beyond his simple duty. He had stepped into Jesse's shoes and filled them admirably. Until now.

Until he had made one simple mistake. How was she – or any of them – supposed to castigate him, after everything he'd done for them?

'_Because the mistake he made might have been fatal.'_

Amanda strove to silence the voice in her head and focus her attention on Mark – but it hurt her to harbour, even secretly, such angry thoughts against Kirk Fitzpatrick. She remembered his gentle touch and his kind words. She remembered how she had admired and respected him.

But then she turned her eyes back to Mark's wound and she deliberately tried to shut down her emotions.

'_It was Kirk's fault.'_

The thought crept in, uninvited and she slammed the door ruthlessly against it. Now was not the time to be apportioning blame – there had been more than enough of that done already recently.

Now was the time to focus solely on Mark and do what she could to help make him well again.

Jesse began barking out orders tersely, his face pinched in utter concentration – and she responded almost without conscious thought. Although she specialised in pathology, she was still a doctor.

Her gloved fingers kept the edges of the wound pushed together as Jesse snipped away the sutures; her eyes watched, monitoring Mark's condition to ensure there was no sudden deterioration; her voice – surprisingly calmly, given the extreme circumstances – directed Steve to call for a nurse. They needed further supplies – and another pair of hands would be useful. Steve complied with commendable speed, given how shocked and sick he looked – although that compliance comprised of him merely yanking open the door and hollering into the corridor. It still provided the desired result.

A click of heels announced the woman's entrance into the room, but Amanda didn't even spare a glance to acknowledge her – because Jesse's first words when she entered sent a shiver down her spine:

"Please prepare a local anaesthetic," he ordered, softly.

Amanda didn't want to say anything; didn't want to undermine Jesse's possibly fragile hold on his confidence – but she was scared.

Mark was so fragile and even a local anaesthetic might cause complications, but she knew Jesse had to do _something_. However, surely they would be safer in the totally sterile and fully equipped OR.

"Jesse..." She tried to give voice to her fears.

Then he raised his head and bright blue eyes burned into hers. _'Trust me,' _they silently implored.

And this was Jesse Travis: who had come back to them, in spite of everything; who was hands-on and striving to save Mark's life, in spite of everything; who was looking confident and assured...

Except there was a hint of something else in his eyes. Maybe it the need for validation or for belief.

Maybe it was – and most importantly – the need for utter faith in him.

Amanda didn't know, but she couldn't take any of them away and so she asked: "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

Jesse's hands were surprisingly steady as they cut away the tainted sutures. In a strange way, he was relieved by what he'd found: the explanation for Mark's continued high fever was right there in front of him and the solution was a simple procedure which wouldn't even require them leaving the room.

But his relief was tempered by lingering feelings of his own inadequacy; of his fear of failure; of his still raw bitter memories. And his thought process became a litany of questions and second-guessing.

He let none of it show on the outside – and he strove to silence the negative voices by acting promptly and decisively on every decision that crossed his mind.

And it worked.

At least it did until he asked for a local anaesthetic – and then he felt Amanda's eyes burning into him; heard the concerned query she couldn't help but utter.

He'd been trying so hard not to look at her – not to seem as though he was seeking affirmation for everything he did – but now he couldn't help it. He needed to know that Amanda believed in him; that she had faith in him.

Doubts and insecurities flooded back to the surface – and he wondered if a local anaesthetic was the right way to go. But surely Mark had suffered more than enough already – and, more than anything, he didn't want to inflict any more pain on him. Even though he was unconscious – almost comatose – he couldn't be responsible for that. And cleansing the ugly infection from his wound site was guaranteed to be painful.

Then Amanda asked what she could do – but, more important than her words was the utter faith in her warm, brown eyes.

"Talk to him," he answered, not breaking eye contact. "Just... Talk to him."

He had to look away then because he had work to do – but he caught a brief glimpse of Amanda cupping Mark's cheek and then, as he worked, he heard the low murmur of her voice:

"We're all here for you, honey. You're going to be just fine. You'll make it through this. We believe in you."

It crossed his mind that the words were as relevant to him as they were to Mark – and he wondered if she had deliberately chosen them that way.

Then he phased out her words – but not her tone – and nodded at the nurse.

When the anaesthetic was administered, Jesse had a heart-stopping moment of utter terror as he waited for an adverse reaction: a sudden screeching of the heart monitor, or a dangerous spike in his already too high temperature.

Nothing happened and the only sound was his own harsh breathing – and Amanda's voice continuing to sooth both of them.

His hands remained steady as his fingers manipulated the wound, easing the worst of the poison out of his mentor's body. Then, utilising sterile wipes and infinite patience, he scrubbed every trace of infection from the wound.

Every trace of possibly infected suture was removed and he cleansed the site with more than meticulous thoroughness. And then he cleansed it again.

His behaviour would have put an OCD sufferer to shame, but he couldn't help himself. He had to get this right.

If he left even a trace of the infection behind, then it might prove deadly.

Finally, he was satisfied he had done enough – and his fingers took over from the nurse: pinching the edges of the wound together.

"I need a suture kit," he told her.

She was gone and back with commendable speed – and, even though the kit was brand new and she had to break it out from its cellophane wrapping, he still took the time to sterilise the needle before using it to puncture Mark's skin.

* * *

The procedure took less than half an hour – and they were minutes that seemed to fly by for Steve; whilst, at the same time, somehow dragging on into eternity.

He didn't look at the clock; didn't dare tear his eyes away from his dad – or, more specifically, Jesse's back which contrived to constantly shield his dad from his direct view.

Whether the young doctor was doing it on purpose, he didn't know – but it left him feeling half frustrated and half grateful. He thought he'd picked up the gist of what was happening – an infection in the wound site – and he wasn't at all sure he was up to seeing his dad cut open and laid bare. It was killing him just to see him lying so still and vulnerable; seeming not just at death's door, but with one foot already over the threshold.

On the other side of the coin was his desperate need to know. He wanted good news, a positive prognosis – but Jesse's shoulders were hunched and he radiated tension. And it was his father whose life was on the line.

He was a cop. He'd seen the worst humanity had to offer – and then some. He wasn't squeamish; he couldn't be in his job. But, though he shifted restlessly from foot to foot, he didn't try too hard to see exactly what Jesse was doing to his dad.

Amanda's voice was a soothing undercurrent to the fraught atmosphere which pervaded the room; but her words barely reached him over the monotonous rhythm of the heart monitor.

The words weren't important, anyway, he realised. Her tone was doing more to calm him than any drug he might have been offered – a thought that only reminded him of the pain throbbing, in time with his heartbeat, through his fist.

He ignored it – just as he'd ignored it for every single minute since he'd smashed his knuckles through his dad's office window. It fleetingly crossed his mind just how Mark might react to what he'd done – and a chuckle escaped his lips; thankfully unheard by the others in the room.

Further laughter threatened, but he clamped down on it ruthlessly. There was nothing funny about anything that had happened – and he knew his mirth was a symptom of borderline hysteria.

He swallowed back another chuckle that threatened to escape and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to get himself under control. When he opened them again, his heart almost stopped.

Jesse had stepped back from the bed and was stripping off his surgical gloves; the nurse was silently clearing away detritus from the bed; and Amanda was staring at Jesse – mostly in hope, but also with a hint of fear in her eyes.

And Steve couldn't take it anymore.

He took a swift half-dozen steps forward and grasped Jesse by the shoulder. There was only one thought in his mind: his dad.

And he forgot everything that had gone before: the anger, the accusations; the blame and the hate. He forgot that his attempted explanations had been brushed away by the sheer desperation of the situation they'd found themselves in; forgot he still hadn't found the way to simply say _'I'm sorry.'_

Jesse whirled at the contact – something akin to panic dominating his expressive features. He clearly still didn't know how he'd be received by Steve – the attempted, aborted apology already lost somewhere in the heat of emotions as he'd battled to save Mark's life.

He gripped Jesse's shoulder and felt almost unbearable tension beneath his fingers. Whether it was tension from this confrontation, or from what he'd just undergone, Steve didn't know. But, however much he wanted to take the first step towards removing that tension between them, a more pressing need weighed unbearably heavily upon him.

His friendship with Jesse meant the world to him – but his dad meant a whole lot more and so the only words he had to say were:

"So what now?"

* * *

Jesse was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Though he knew everything he'd done had been textbook correct, he still didn't know if it was enough. But Steve was looking at him with such hope, such desperation...

He hated the only answer he had to give to him, but he said it anyway – looking away as he did: "Now all we can do is wait."

He expected Steve's hand to fall away from his shoulder; expected him turning away and focussing solely on Mark – and Jesse truly couldn't blame him. Waiting was an integral part of any treatment, but it would always be the most difficult for any relative to endure.

But Steve's grasp tightened – and not in an angry, aggressive way. It was more like when Susan, his long-time girlfriend had left him; or like when his own dad had let him down yet again – and Jesse had seen pain and regret in his eyes.

And Jesse, again, could see pain and regret – so he went out on a limb and chose to elaborate: "The antibiotics should have a real chance now. We need to give them time to work. His temperature should be down in a matter of hours."

"So he's gonna be okay?"

Jesse opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative – but then abruptly closed it again. Though his hopes were high, he couldn't be certain of Mark's prognosis until they saw some definite results.

And he wasn't about to lie to Steve about it – even as it pained him to be the one to kill the light of hope currently shining in his eyes.

"He's..." He shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. "He..." The words wouldn't come – and he sought some way to hold onto his professionalism and do what he'd done about a million times in his life before: deliver the truth; which was often a lot less optimistic than the recipient of that truth was hoping for.

"Jesse, please..."

In spite of the softly spoken words, the grip on his shoulder tightened painfully. But it wasn't physical pain that forced tears to Jesse's eyes as, with a gargantuan effort, he looked back up at Steve.

"If there are no underlying issues..." He temporised. "If there aren't any complications..." He swallowed heavily and did what he always did: took the full weight of responsibility onto his shoulders: "Steve, I can't make any promises."

And it felt as though the very room was holding its breath, as Jesse awaited his reaction.

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

**I've known all along that this story wouldn't be to everyone's taste. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time out to review.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirty

Steve closed his eyes and took a deep breath. To Jesse, it seemed as though he was possibly internally counting to ten.

It was unnerving –and it was all Jesse could do not to look away, much less go running from the room, for fear of what might soon transpire. But he held his ground and his steady gaze – and a few seconds later Steve's eyes opened.

They were bright with tears.

"I didn't ask for a promise," the detective muttered, tightly. "I just asked... Dammit, I'm just trying to get a straight answer here!"

His voice rose and Jesse forced himself not to flinch away. Steve's reaction was both predictable and understandable. And it was also remarkably restrained – giving Jesse cause to be thankful for the few seconds Steve had taken to compose himself.

Maybe a remnant of their friendship did still count for something.

It warmed Jesse's heart and gave him the first sliver of optimism that his life in LA might not be completely unsalvageable.

Of course, any future he might contemplate had to have Mark very firmly in it – and he didn't want to even consider a reality where that was not the case.

He took a moment to consider exactly what he knew – and then tried to find the way to put those thoughts into words. He thought about it as a doctor; then as a person; and, finally, he thought about it as a friend.

He nodded his head and strove to be as honest as he could, without swaying towards either pessimism or potentially false hope.

"I really believe that Mark's temperature will stabilise now," he began – still not flinching as Steve's desperate gaze bore into him. "I think I've eliminated the infection and he'll be able to start his recovery process properly now. There is still a danger of complications; and there is a chance that I..." He swallowed, heavily. This part was so hard, it was almost impossible: "There is still a chance that the infection wasn't fully eradicated..."

"How big a chance?" Unsurprisingly, those were the only words Steve seized on – not grasping onto anything positive, but focussing solely on the negative.

Unfortunately, there wasn't very much Jesse could say in response. He could only do what he'd been trying to do all along – offer the absolute truth:

"You know I can't give you a number, Steve," he said. "But I really believe I've cleared the infection and Mark now has a fighting chance..."

"You really believe that?" Steve asked – his eyes boring into Jesse's with an intensity that was almost frightening.

It was all Jesse had in him not to shy away: "Yes, I do."

"Then I believe you." Steve's eyes softened and a parody of a smile twitched his lips. "I trust you."

Suddenly Jesse felt as though all of the air had been sucked from the room. His heart was racing and he almost felt the blood draining from his face. Steve's words resonated around his head:

"_I trust you."_

He could scarcely believe his own ears. After the hatred and vitriol spewed at him the last time they had stood face to face...

"_I trust you."_

It was too much; overwhelming in its intensity – when those words had been beyond his wildest imaginings, on the rare occasion he'd dared to contemplate how this meeting might go.

And he simply didn't know how to react.

He'd rehearsed the need for distance; for professional detachment and clinical courtesy. He'd expected aloofness; maybe thinly veiled hostility. He hadn't expected – and had no way of planning for:

"_I trust you."_

As tears filled his eyes, he looked quickly to the floor.

"Thank you," he murmured. Then he turned away – using the motion to make it seem like he was going to check on Mark. Even though, in reality, nothing could possibly have changed in the few minutes it had taken for that Earth-shattering exchange to take place.

* * *

Amanda knew she was staring, but she couldn't help herself. In fact, she knew she was standing there with her mouth open and her eyes wide – but she couldn't look away. She couldn't even blink.

A million scenarios had run through her head as she assisted Jesse – the words she murmured coming almost from instinct, as she tried to envisage how the rest of the drama might play out.

She'd ended up on the side of distance and detachment – knowing that neither man would do anything to, even subconsciously, cause Mark any further distress.

Then the outcome – when it came – almost made her laugh out loud.

"_I trust you."_

It was better than anything she'd dared to hope for – and yet Jesse didn't seem as thrilled by the words as she was.

In her eyes it was a giant leap forwards; a massive step towards them rebuilding their fractured lives; more than an olive branch – more like a whole olive tree – extended. And all Jesse had to do was take it.

Then he'd turned away.

On the surface, Amanda inwardly raged against him. But, in her heart of hearts, she understood.

She so, so wanted Jesse to grab hold of the olive branch – because, then, everything would be as it was. All would be well in their world again.

Except that it wouldn't.

Nothing would _ever _be as it was. Mark's new disability would be a constant and permanent reminder to all of them.

But if Steve and Jesse could rebuild their bridges – could rekindle their friendship – then the whole transition would be easier for all of them.

'_For all of them?'_ She sourly asked herself, _'or for her?'_

She sighed softly and looked at Steve – trying to gauge his reaction to Jesse turning away from him.

The detective looked like anything but the fearsome law enforcement officer he was. He looked distraught and afraid; distressed and alone. But she could see the way his eyes kept switching between his dad and Jesse – even though neither one were capable of looking back at him; albeit for very different reasons.

She couldn't stand the helpless look on his face – and knew it was up to her to intervene.

If only she knew what to say.

But anything would be better than the silence that had now settled over the room. The nurse long gone, it was only the four of them; the 'family'. And yet the silence was becoming thick and oppressive; threatening to suffocate them all – and end their lives, even though it wouldn't physically kill them.

The impasse had to be broken before it stretched on into irreparable damage and she wracked her brains for the right thing to say; wondering if she should address Steve, or Jesse, or both...

She opened her mouth and then closed it again – floundering for words which simply were not there.

Then Steve snatched her dilemma away from her.

* * *

Steve had thought – hoped – that giving his trust would be enough to right all of the wrongs he had caused; to make everything well between them; to rebuild the foundation of their friendship.

He was wrong.

When Jesse turned away, he felt anger well within him. Anger that his 'olive branch' had been so ignored; anger with himself that he still hadn't found the way to make up for his unforgivable behaviour.

And as the anger threatened to swell and grow – again aimed in the totally wrong direction – he bit down hard on it.

He couldn't – _wouldn't_ – strike out at his friend again.

Because, before Jesse turned away, Steve had seen the glint of tears in his eyes. He was the only one who could make it right.

He knew what he had to do:

"Jesse, I'm sorry."

And the young man froze – but still did not turn around.

"I'm sorry," Steve said again: "And... I don't blame you. I never did... Not really..." He knew Jesse so well – and so knew what else he must have needed to hear: "But, Jess, even though you did nothing wrong... I forgive you."

Jesse turned around slowly, his head still bowed.

"But I overslept. I wasn't here." And it seemed like the admission was physically painful for him to make.

"It wouldn't have made any difference; not the way I understood it." Steve took a chance and grasped Jesse's shoulders: "And you were here when it really mattered. You were here to save his life."

Jesse merely blinked at him through tear-heavy eyes – and Steve's shoulders slumped. He remembered the day of his dad's accident. He remembered every detail; every vitriolic word he'd spat out in hatred and contempt. He remembered his cruelty – and his need, almost his obsession, to make Jesse hurt as much as _he_ was hurting.

It seemed like he'd succeeded.

And simple words like _'I'm sorry', 'Thank you'_ and even _'I forgive you'_ were never going to be enough.

He had to find some way to make Jesse understand – because it was his only hope of salvaging the best friendship he'd ever shared with anyone.

At least he had the advantage of still holding Jesse by the shoulders – and he wasn't about to let go. He couldn't force Jesse to understand – but he could make him listen.

"Jesse, you know how close dad and I are. I know you've wished for it with your own dad – and I've wished you could find it, too." He saw Jesse's face harden and wondered if this really was the right way to go – but he'd made a decision and so soldiered on with it: "And I know you once told Amanda that you wanted your relationship with your dad... Well... you wanted it with _my _dad."

Jesse blushed and tried – albeit half-heartedly – to pull away. Steve followed his accusing gaze as he tried to nail Amanda with a glare. But quietly and discreetly – as was so typical of her – she was gone from the room.

Then Steve tightened his grip even more.

The next words he had to say were going to be painful for them both – but he had to say them:

"I need you to be my friend, Jesse – because I'm terrified he's not gonna make it." He almost shook Jesse as he spoke, but he couldn't help it. Desperation controlled his every action. "And if he doesn't make it... If my dad dies... I need you to know..."

And Jesse must have somehow found superhuman strength – because he wrenched free from Steve's almost death-like grip and angry blue eyes were blazing up at him.

"Don't you even think that!" the young doctor raged. "Don't even contemplate it! I didn't..." He shook his head: "_We_ didn't go through all of that to just give up now. Don't even _think_ it, Steve. Mark is _not_ going to die."

Steve could only look at him, somewhat stunned. Had he really given up on his dad? He'd never done that before – at least had never admitted it out loud – and guilt threatened to swamp him.

Then Jesse took a deep, steadying breath: "He is not going to die. And I will promise you that."

And they stood there – almost squared up to one another.

Steve suddenly wheeled away, covering his face with his hands. Horror churned in his stomach, warring against the guilt in his heart – as he recognised truth in his words. He really was utterly terrified for his dad's life.

Jesse's own words had been almost like a physical slap in the face – but he couldn't help but wonder as to their truth.

"That's a hell of a promise to make," was all he could find to say – noting the way his hands shook and how he could do nothing to stop them.

"Yeah." The response was quiet; shaken.

Steve slowly turned back around, as he registered Jesse's reaction. From the passion he'd displayed mere minutes ago, he'd suddenly shrunk back in on himself.

"Jesse..?" He tried to ask what was wrong – but, inside, he already knew the answer.

Jesse had made a promise he couldn't possibly guarantee to keep.

* * *

Jesse couldn't even look at Steve, as the words escaped his lips almost without conscious thought. Mere minutes ago his best attempt at optimism had been him saying: _"I can't make any promises."_

What had changed so dramatically within him? Where had such passion and belief come from?

He couldn't answer those questions. He had just done what he always did: he'd tried to find some way to take away the suffering of another.

But he felt like he'd failed.

When Steve turned away, he did exactly the same thing – and he didn't even make the pretence of checking on Mark. He just stood with his head bowed; wondering how he could take back his reckless promise – without taking away any of the hope he might have instilled in Steve.

In truth, he was also waiting for the explosion from the detective which was surely to follow – and which he surely deserved. He never even heard Steve's soft uttering of his name.

So the last thing he expected was a firm hand clasping hold of his shoulder. Jesse stiffened at the contact – but did not turn around.

"Jesse... You don't know how badly I needed to hear that... To hear..." He trailed off with an anguished glance towards his father. "I can't believe I... I said that when he might have heard..." There was a pause; a strangled gasp – then: "Do you think he could have heard? Heard me... giving up on him?"

Jesse couldn't bear to hear the guilt and the self-flagellation in Steve's voice. It no longer mattered what had gone before – none of it. He knew the depth of the relationship between Steve and Mark; knew it and envied it – but he would always admire it and cherish it.

He knew where Steve's words had come from – and he knew the reasoning behind them. Now he just had to make the often stubborn detective understand.

"You weren't giving up on him," he said – finally shrugging free from Steve and turning around. He wanted to reach out and grab hold of the detective, to help reinforce his point, but was unsure how he'd be received. He only had words with which to get through to him: "I don't know if he could hear you, Steve. I honestly don't. But I do know that you _didn't_ give up on him."

"But I..."

"You didn't," Jesse stressed. He took a chance and rested his right hand lightly on Steve's bicep. "If Mark did hear you, then all he heard was you being scared. He's so ill, Steve – he would understand you being scared. And you shouldn't feel guilty that you care so much – love him so much – that you admitted being afraid. You've nothing to feel guilty about."

"Neither do you," Steve responded, quietly – and there was an intensity in his eyes that made Jesse back up a half-step.

He didn't know how to react; didn't know how to respond to the sudden turn around. His sole aim had been to make Steve feel better about himself and about his misplaced feelings of guilt.

He wasn't prepared to confront those same feelings of his own. He backed away even further – wondering how things had changed so rapidly. In trying to help Steve, he suddenly found himself having to confront his own demons.

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

**I'm sorry that this chapter is so late – I can only (albeit lamely) blame work. And work is quite hectic right now; so please bear with me.**

**I'm also sorry that it's somewhat short; but I thought a short update is better than no update... **

**Thanks to everyone who has taken the time out to review.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirty-One.

Jesse had almost backed himself completely into the corner of the room, Steve realised with dismay. At least he had backed away from the door – and Steve subtly shifted his body so that no easy escape route was left open.

It wasn't that he was trying to trap the young doctor; but, if Jesse did choose to flee, then he wasn't at all sure he'd be able to abandon his dad in order to follow him – and he felt as though he was finally starting to make some real progress with his friend.

Jesse didn't seem to notice his careful, strategic movements – but just continued to stare at him through wide and tear-filled eyes. And Steve knew he had to break the lengthening silence, before it became irreparably damaging.

"Jesse..." he murmured: "The things I said to you..." It was hard to find the words, because his own guilt was still gripping at his heart. Trying to talk about the unforgivable things he'd said was reopening wounds that had barely even had a chance to begin healing.

But, in order for them to heal, he had to make Jesse understand.

"They weren't anything I haven't been saying to myself!" Jesse suddenly cried; interrupting Steve's thought process – and his heart sank.

He'd been thinking of talking about pain and anger and fear and grief – even if every word of his hastily proposed argument sounded trite and weak, even in his own mind. But Jesse's words tore every rationale from his head – as guilt rushed back in and consumed his every thought, with an almost dizzying intensity.

_He_ had done this. He had turned the previously ebullient young man into the broken shell who now stood before him. Jesse looked a shadow of his former self. His shoulders were slumped and his head was down; his weight-loss was dramatic and his skin was pale; his face sunken and sallow. And Steve was solely responsible for all of that.

And he was the only one who could make it right.

"I should have done this on the very first day," he said.

Taking two swift steps forward, he extended his right hand – and was dismayed to see Jesse flinch; real fear filling his eyes as he cowered away from an expected blow – a blow it looked like he felt was thoroughly deserved.

Jesse's reaction pained Steve's heart – even if he wasn't truly surprised by it – but he didn't let his dismay show. Nor did he falter in his intention.

Grasping Jesse's right hand, he clasped it in both of his own and shook it. His grip might have been a fraction tight, but he needed to convey his absolute sincerity in what he was doing.

"Thank you..." he began – and then felt the need to properly explain: "I should have done this right after dad's operation." He maintained a firm grip on Jesse's hand and was gratified when the doctor looked tremulously up at him. There was still some fear in the blue eyes; but there was also a hint of familiar curiosity; and maybe even a faint glimmer of hope.

Emboldened by what he saw, Steve pressed on: "You saved my dad's life – and the only words I ever should have said to you were 'thank you'. So I'm doing it now: Thank you. Seriously, Jesse, you can't know how much I mean it. Thank you."

"But..." A look of deep remorse flashed across Jesse's face and he tried to slide his hand free from Steve's vice like grip.

Steve was having none of it.

"But nothing." Steve looked deeply into his best friend's eyes and silently prayed he could get through to him. "You saved his life – and I'll forever be grateful to you." His intense gaze faltered as his own guilt caught up with him – yet again. "And I can never tell you how deeply sorry I am for what I said; what I did. I hope you can forgive me."

Steve didn't know why, but he'd clearly said the wrong thing – because Jesse somehow managed to wrench free from his grasp. After that, shock dulled his senses because he could only stand and watch as Jesse ducked past him and fled from the room.

He wanted to chase after his friend – he genuinely did – but then his eyes fell on his dad's supine form and any internal battle was lost.

Practically collapsing into a chair at Mark's bedside he could only hope that Amanda hadn't strayed too far and would be there for Jesse.

Because he couldn't – no matter how much he wanted to.

He couldn't.

Not until his dad woke up, at least.

* * *

Jesse bolted from the room at what felt like breakneck speed. It had all been too much for him to take.

Steve's thanks could have been accepted graciously: he was a doctor and he was kind of used to thanks he didn't feel he fully deserved. But then he'd gone on to apologise and ask for forgiveness – and Jesse genuinely didn't know how to deal with those sentiments.

It should have been easy. He should have smiled and nodded – and pretended everything was okay.

But his nightmares were still fresh in his mind and guilt churned bile in his gut. He staggered, feeling the bile rise into his throat – and he coughed and gasped and swallowed convulsively as he sought not to totally humiliate himself by vomiting all over the hospital floor.

When he felt strong hands grasp his shoulders, he allowed himself to be guided towards a nearby chair and then gratefully lowered himself into it.

Opening his eyes, he expected to see Steve – but it was Amanda who crouched next to him.

"You're stronger than you look," he cracked – without any real attempt of humour. He just needed to speak out loud and try to silence the screaming voices in his head.

Since Steve had asked for forgiveness, the nightmares had come back again and again. And his waking nightmares – those now spawned fresh in his imagination – had the power to destroy him completely.

Steve might forgive him – but how was Mark going to react?

* * *

"Honey, what happened?" Amanda asked, having spent the last few minutes loitering in the corridor – pretending she had every right to be there, while at the same time fighting back the urge to eavesdrop.

Then she jerked away from the door – which she wasn't listening at – as Jesse practically bolt from the room and she instantly feared the worst. Her fears were seemingly confirmed when she easily guided Jesse into a nearby seat.

Then he'd looked at her and made a feeble attempt at a joke.

Amanda shook her head at his attempted bravado and dropped to her knees at his side.

"What happened?" she asked again; keeping her tone infinitely gentle.

Jesse dragged in a breath and closed his eyes.

"Steve..." He shook his head and heaved out a long sigh. "I know he's sorry... He said he forgives me... But... Mark..."

Amanda floundered and took a wild moment to look around for some help. Jesse was clearly suffering from shock – and, without knowing exactly what had transpired in Mark's room, she was ill equipped to deal with it.

But, either by accident or design, they were alone.

"What about Mark?" she asked – sudden fear spiking within her, as she recalled how desperately Jesse had fled from the room. And how Steve hadn't followed him. "Is he..?"

Her voice was too shrill but she couldn't help it.

"He's the same." Jesse's response was low and dejected – and had Amanda shifting her concerns back towards him again. She crouched in front of him and gently caressed his knee.

"Then what's wrong, honey?" she asked.

"He'll be okay." Jesse squeezed his eyes shut as he said the words. "I know he'll be okay. He'll fight the infection and get better and wake up and..."

"And we'll..." Amanda wanted to say that they'd get back on with their lives; that things would go back to something like normal. She sought a positive spin – but Jesse's next words curtailed her enthusiasm:

"He'll hate me."

Amanda might have laughed out loud at that – but she wouldn't, _couldn't_, be so cruel. Instead she shuffled in closer to her friend and cupped his face in her hands.

"You should know that Mark doesn't hate easily," she said, with a passion. "He saves his hatred for those who truly deserve it."

"But I..."His eyes squeezed shut and it was clear he believed that he did truly deserve it: "He won't think about anything other than the fact that I cut off..."

"That you saved his life!" Amanda's voice was loud and harsh – and she didn't care. "He was awake, Jesse. He was awake – and he said he wanted to thank you."

Jesse just looked at her. His mouth moved, but no words came out – and Amanda's heart went out to him.

"Jesse, Mark's a doctor," she strove to explain. "He knows what happened and he understands. He knows he could have died; knows he might very well have died – if it hadn't been for you."

"But..." Though her words made sense, the nightmare refused to leave him alone: _Mark suddenly sitting up; his body maimed and his eyes accusing: "You butchered me!"_

"But nothing." Amanda unknowingly echoed Steve's own response as she sought some way to get through to her friend. "Jess, I was there when Mark first woke up and almost his very first words were to ask after you."

"Almost?" Jesse latched on to that one word, his still lurking paranoia trying to convince him that Mark's _very _first words had been an accusation against him.

"Well, his very first words were about Steve," Amanda answered with a certain reluctance. She really didn't want to go back down that road; as to why it had been her and not Steve who heard those words. "But that's a whole other story," she temporised.

She saw both Jesse's mouth and brow twitch in distress – and she didn't even try to suppress her sigh. Her empathic endurance had just passed its breaking point.

"Jesse, I'm sorry, but you have to stop making everything I say – everything that happened – about you!"

Jesse gasped and he recoiled slightly. His cheeks reddened – and Amanda felt instantly contrite and regretful.

She hadn't meant to be so harsh, but now it felt as though she had physically slapped him in the face – and he'd reacted as though she'd done exactly that.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean that. But it was a... a difficult time for all of us," she hesitantly explained – and tried to draw him into a hug to convey her sincerity; but he shrugged her away and got to his feet.

"No, you're right," Jesse responded, his eyes meeting hers with burning intensity – and, when he next spoke, there was a reassuring, familiar firmness to his tone: "And I need to stop running away."

He stood up and took a step towards Mark's room – but then his fleeting confidence seemed in danger of deserting him.

"Amanda?" he asked, half-turning back towards her – and there was desperation in his eyes.

"Right here, honey," she easily assured him.

Independently of one another, but simultaneously, they both took a deep and steadying breath. Their eyes met and they exchanged a small smile; but the moment quickly passed as Jesse reached out an only slightly trembling hand towards the door handle.

TBC


	32. Chapter 32

**I can't apologise enough for taking so long to get this chapter up – but May has been a month I'd like to forget. Hopefully, things will settle down for me soon and I'll try not to keep you all waiting for so long again.**

**Thanks to everyone who has taken the time out to review – and to all who have added me to favourites and alerts.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

Jesse got as far as turning the door handle – but not actually opening the door – when he heard a voice call out Amanda's name. It wasn't fear that made him hesitate; or any attempt to run away again. He hesitated because he recognised the voice who'd called. It was Kirk Fitzpatrick.

A million thoughts ricocheted around his head – but superseding them all was the mental image of Mark's chest wound: stitches torn and infection running wild. It could have been – and very nearly had been – fatal.

And Kirk had been Mark's doctor.

Jesse bit his lip as he slowly turned around. He didn't want to lash out at Kirk – the brutal treatment meted out to him by Steve was still too raw a memory – but nor could the man not be held accountable for his actions; or lack thereof.

He glanced sidelong at Amanda, silently trying to seek guidance from her; but her own lips were thinned with anger, even if her face was a carefully composed mask of neutrality.

"Amanda, I was coming to..." Kirk was breathless; flustered. But then he pulled up short as he noticed Jesse for the first time. "Uh... I heard a rumour..."

Jesse could forgive him for being flustered – but he couldn't forgive him for what he'd done to Mark. He still couldn't find it within himself to throw accusations at the other man. And then – like a lightning bolt out of the blue – it hit him as to why. He remembered tears; remembered trembling hands; remembered a desperate phone call.

He didn't lash out at Kirk because _he_ was the one who'd transferred Mark's care. He was almost as much to blame as the other man.

Shaking his head, Jesse forced that thought from his mind – recognising how potentially damaging it was, even in his fragile state. He took a deep breath and then spoke in a surprisingly steady voice:

"The sutures in Mark's chest had split. I repaired them and disinfected his wound." He looked Kirk square in the eye; trying to convey his feelings. He wasn't trying to apportion blame, but he needed to show him his culpability.

Somehow, Kirk seemed to understand: "I'm sorry... I thought I'd done everything..." He looked at Jesse with real distress in his eyes: "What will happen now?" he asked.

"Now I have to report everything that happened to the Hospital Board." He looked at Kirk with genuine regret. His colleague – his _friend_, he swiftly amended – had stepped up to the plate for him. And now he was in about to threaten Kirk's very career. But he couldn't just turn a blind eye. This was Mark Sloan they were talking about and every miniscule detail of his hospitalisation was a source of interest – and gossip. "I'm sorry," Jesse apologised, sincerely.

But Kirk just offered him a sad smile:

"I know I missed it, Jesse," he said, his gaze falling away from the other man's. "I also know that I stitched up Mark's chest. Maybe that's why I didn't check." He pinched his eyes and turned away. "I'm sorry."

Jesse's heart went out to him. He knew about crippling guilt; knew the pain of self-retribution; knew the agony of culpability.

And he empathised with Kirk; because it was what he did and who he was.

"I know how bad you're feeling, but..." he paused as the perfect advice came to mind; and he wished someone had been there to offer it to him: "You have to forget that it's Mark Sloan we're talking about here. If it had been somebody else – if it been a John Doe – what would you have done?"

"Exactly the same!"Kirk retorted, almost without thought – and Jesse nodded. It had taken a long time, but he had eventually come to the same answer himself. It didn't matter who the patient was; he'd done what he had to do.

But then Kirk turned somewhat sheepish: "I wouldn't... I didn't... I mean..." He offered a helpless shrug and added: "I mean... the next time, I won't be so... so vain. I won't be so complacent in my work and just assume the complications couldn't be caused by anything I'd done..." He paused briefly: "How is Mark?" He asked, gesturing towards the closed door.

"He's... the same." Jesse couldn't offer anything other than the truth. And that truth starkly reminded him how badly he needed to be back at Mark's side: "I have to go," he said – unconsciously mirroring Kirk's gesture towards Mark's hospital room.

"I know. And I'm glad you're back." Kirk offered a heartfelt smile; but the smile darkened into a frown. He heaved a sigh and shook his head: "I'm sorry."

Jesse smiled – but, inside, his emotions were roiling.

"_I'm sorry."_

How simply those words were said – and how easily they were given and accepted; without anyone actually understanding their true worth.

"_I'm sorry."_

He thought about saying those two words to Mark – and he knew they would never be enough.

But still, as Kirk walked away, he looked at Amanda and offered her a tremulous smile – and opened the door to Mark's room.

* * *

Steve sat in the hard, plastic chair and stared intently into his dad's face. Jesse's dramatic exit replaying over and over again in his mind, as he tried to figure out exactly what he'd said or done to send the young man fleeing from the room.

All he had done was to ask for forgiveness – and it cut him deeply that such a request had had such an adverse effect.

His tormented mind made a simple deduction – even if his deduction was wholly wrong – and he deduced that Jesse had bolted because he couldn't find forgiveness. He couldn't look Steve in the eye and tell him it was all behind them – some things could never be forgiven.

Steve internally acknowledged that such a reaction would be totally out of character for his young friend: Jesse was affable and easy going and had never held a grudge against anyone – even when he'd had the best of reasons to.

But these weren't the most normal of circumstances and he recognised that he couldn't hold much sway in people acting characteristically. He'd been guilty of it himself: lashing out not only at Jesse, but also at Amanda and Kirk. Amanda, too, had shocked him when she lashed out at him – both verbally and physically.

Then, he reasoned, they had never found themselves in such an extreme situation before – not when one had taken the mantle of blame and it was left to the others to react.

But how the hell was he supposed to make it right? How could he _make _Jesse forgive him?

Steve heaved out a sigh.

"Dad, you've gotta wake up," he said, in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "It's all gone to hell and I don't know how to make it right. We need you, dad. Please, _I _need you."

He squeezed his eyes shut; fighting back threatening tears – and didn't even look up when the door quietly opened.

A soft hand dropped onto his shoulder – and he didn't need to be a detective to know it was Amanda. Though she deserved better, Steve didn't even look up at her.

"It's all so screwed up," he murmured – and maybe, deep down, he was still talking to his dad: "I just want it to be back to... to like it was before..."

He'd almost said _'back to normal'_ but knew that was impossible. His dad's injury was a stark, unforgiving reminder that normal was a long way removed from where he could even hope to be.

Suddenly, he was shocked out of his miasma as a new voice spoke up:

"I forgive you, Steve," Jesse said, softly. "Or I would if I thought there was anything to forgive."

Steve looked up and saw the young man hovering nervously by the door. He offered a sad smile – but no words. What had happened between them had happened: apologies offered and forgiveness extended. His eyes locked with Jesse's and he knew – in that instant – they would be alright.

His father, however...

"Jesse, please..." he breathed; knowing – and not caring – how desperate he must have sounded.

* * *

Jesse knew that it was a waste of time – but he had to do something. And the only thing he could do was to check Mark's vital signs.

It was way too soon for any change to have taken place – and he suspected Steve knew it too; but he needed to try; and to silently pray for a miracle.

Something had happened between him and Steve in that silent communicate, just before Steve's quiet plea. He recognised it in exactly the same way Steve had:

Somehow, after everything they had been through, they had both found remorse and forgiveness. Things would never be the same again, but they would have a solid foundation of friendship to help them rebuild the shattered pieces of their lives.

That in itself was a minor miracle, in Jesse's opinion. In the dark hours following Mark's operation, he'd never envisaged that he'd ever be able to call Steve his friend again – much less his best friend.

But now he and Steve were okay. Maybe they weren't yet out of the woods completely; maybe there were still some conversations to be had. But they would be just that: conversations.

As he continued to check on Mark – cinching a blood pressure cuff around his arm – Jesse couldn't help but remember the most damning accusation he'd ever levelled at Steve in his life before: _"You left me."_

It still haunted him – and he was sure it would to his dying day. He'd never truly blamed Steve for his abduction by Perris Pharmaceuticals and the five days he'd been held captive – days that he still had no recollection of – but he'd made the accusation. And he'd hurt Steve with it.

A few nights out; a lot of shared plates of ribs at their BBQ joint; a number of beers – though not enough to cloud judgement and inflame emotions; and eventually they had worked things out.

Jesse bit his lip and hoped that things could work out so well for a second time; even though the circumstances were wholly different.

Because, as he finished his examination of Mark, he knew there was no miracle coming to his aid.

He offered a half-smile and fleeting eye contact. Somehow, he felt as though he'd let Steve down – and he feared what reaction he might get; no matter what might have gone before.

They were all on edge, all volatile – and it might not take much for Steve to snap again. The terror the detective still felt for his dad was etched in his face; rigid in his body language.

And Jesse knew the words he needed to say – but he was afraid to say them. He was afraid to put a strain on their friendship which, to him, still stood on very shaky foundations.

Then Steve took away his fears – and left him feeling like a total coward for shrinking away from the issue.

"It's too soon for anything to have happened, isn't it?" the detective asked.

Jesse felt deflated as he nodded an affirmative. He hadn't realised just how strongly he'd been hoping for a miracle. He patted Mark's shoulder and silently apologised for asking more of his mentor than he could possibly give.

"How long?" Steve's voice broke through his contemplation – and Jesse looked up sharply before offering a smile that was somehow both hopeful and grateful.

Steve understood – and he wasn't asking for a miracle.

"It will be at least a couple of hours before we can hope to see any change," he explained. "The antibiotics need time to be given the chance to work."

Then Jesse took a moment to really look at Steve – and he did it without any fear of what might be reflected from the other man's eyes.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked; taking in his friend's haggard and unkempt appearance. "Or ate, for that matter?"

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Steve responded – and Jesse dropped his eyes; even as his rumbling stomach betrayed any protest he might have voiced.

Then Amanda's voice cut in. They had both forgotten she was even there.

"Why don't you both go and get something to eat?" she suggested. "I can stay with Mark and I promise I'll page you the moment he even stirs." At receiving two dubious looks in return, she added: "It's only two floors away and I know, for a fact, if I send you away for two hours you'll be back in less than one." She adopted what Jesse always thought of as her 'mom' tone: "Will you really be of any help to Mark if you collapse on him?"

"A cup of coffee," Jesse acceded. "Maybe a sandwich."

"No more than ten minutes," Steve added – and he reluctantly got to his feet.

"Okay." Amanda knew when to push and when, more importantly, when not to. "Just, please, eat something – both of you. I promise I'll call if I need you."

Jesse was on the verge of following Steve through the door and then he turned back:

"Hey, you need to eat and sleep, too." Though he didn't want to say it aloud, Amanda was looking far removed from her usual immaculate self – even if she didn't quite look virtually on the edge of collapse, she wasn't far removed.

It had clearly been an impossible burden on all of them.

"I'm okay," Amanda answered – and she thought about Ron and everything he'd done for her. Tears filled her eyes as the fleeting thought of how she might handle this without him crossed her mind. Then she shook the thought away. Ron was there and he was her rock. Now it was up to her to lend her strength to her friends. "I'm okay, she reiterated: "And you need to eat."

Then she stood – with the door still ajar – and watched Steve and Jesse walk away. There was no contact between them and there, seemingly, was no conversation either. As she watched, Amanda feared she saw growing tension tighten across both their shoulders as they walked.

And she fearfully wondered if she'd done the right thing.

TBC


	33. Chapter 33

**Thanks for your patience and special thanks for each and every review.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirty-Three.

It wasn't until he started walking towards the elevators that Jesse realised how truly unprepared he was to be back in Community General. Prior to that moment, he had been focussing on Mark; driven solely by the need to get back to his side and to take over his care.

Something he now knew he should never have relinquished.

But, since his return, things had happened with alarming alacrity – and now, walking through the corridor, he suddenly became aware of the other staff members: the doctors, nurses, orderlies and porters. All of them were looking at him – though some were trying hard to disguise their stares. And he knew that, behind his back, they would be whispering about him.

In truth, he supposed he couldn't blame them. He'd added fuel to any gossip and rumour by fleeing from the hospital so soon after operating on Mark. His return was always going to be a source of much speculation.

Paranoia hunched his shoulders as he wondered what those whispers were saying.

He tried to keep his eyes downcast as he walked, but it was impossible. In spite of everything he, Steve, Mark and Amanda had endured, the rest of the world wasn't caught up in their drama.

The hospital corridors still bustled with their everyday traffic – and most of the people couldn't care less about him; each of them having their own personal dramas to contend with.

But that thought didn't help him to feel any less self-conscious and his discomfort was only reinforced when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a metal door.

He looked unkempt and dishevelled – and he was in desperate need of a shave. The flight from Blackbrook had left him looking crumpled and feeling dirty. And suddenly, inappropriately, he felt an intense need to shower. His very skin seemed to crawl, even as he tried to shy away from the selfishness of only thinking about himself when there was so, so much more at stake.

Jesse scrubbed a hand across his face – and used the motion to sneak a surreptitious glance towards Steve. He didn't quite know what he was hoping to see; but whatever it might have been wasn't there.

The detective's face was set in stone and tension radiated from him in waves.

Jesse easily read the expression on his face – and he knew it had nothing to do with him. It was all to do with Mark – as it always would be. Reaching out, his fingers grasped on to Steve's sleeve:

"Go back," he implored – knowing exactly why his friend was so pent up with tension. His hand was still clenched into Steve's jacket – and it spoke volumes that the other man hadn't tried to pull away.

"Jesse, don't," Steve growled. He finally jerked his arm free and moved as though to stalk away – but then stopped abruptly. "Please..." He added, sincerely.

Jesse nodded faintly and trailed after Steve as he turned away and swiftly resumed his progress towards the elevators.

* * *

Steve was, again, feeling anger bristling through his veins – but, this time, it was only directed inwards. It had been a matter of mere minutes since he'd silently vowed not to leave his dad's side – and yet Amanda had sent him packing with just a few words.

His deepest fear was playing out in his head over and over as he walked: that something would go wrong; that his dad might die whilst he was not there – and it all manifested into his sullen, angry mood.

He wasn't surprised when Jesse told him to go back, but he was surprised by the young doctor's – albeit half-hearted – attempt to physically stop him. It was exactly how Jesse might have reacted before any of this had happened: Bold enough to try and prevent him from an oft ill-chosen course of action; but not so bold as to test the detective's boundaries.

It was... normal.

Surprisingly, normal seemed to help and it tempered his response to Jesse. It kept him calm as he forced his feet to continue towards the elevators.

And it helped him hold on to a sense of belief.

He _knew_ his dad wasn't in imminent danger of dying; _knew _Amanda wouldn't have sent him away if that weren't true; and he _knew_ – on his life – that Jesse wouldn't have walked away from Mark if he harboured even the faintest of fears within him.

But that knowledge didn't overly help his gnawing guilt and, as he and Jesse entered the elevator – thankfully, miraculously, holding only the two of them – he sought a distraction.

And something had been nagging at him ever since they had managed to track Jesse down:

"Exactly how did you manage to abandon your car somewhere in Southern Oregon?" He asked, then he watched in barely disguised amusement as a blush rose up to colour the younger man's cheeks.

"I, uh... I ran out of gas." Jesse quietly confessed.

"You ran out of gas?" Steve couldn't help himself; he needed some stress relief and it seemed presented on a plate with some gentle teasing, albeit at Jesse's expense: "So you never noticed those forty foot billboards they've got lined up along the highways?"

A brief flare of panic spiked within him, as he wondered how Jesse might answer his possibly poorly chosen question. After all, it would be difficult to broach the subject as to why he had even driven north. But Jesse didn't let him down:

"What billboards?" he asked, with a look of contrived innocence on his face – so much like the Jesse Travis of old; of just a few short days ago. If only Steve could believe it was genuine.

Steve let out a bark of laughter. He couldn't help himself and he certainly wasn't about to break the mood.

He'd got too many things wrong in the last few days – but now it might turn out to be easy to put one of them right.

He grasped Jesse's shoulder and then pretended not to feel him flinch.

Steve Sloan wasn't the most demonstrative of men, but he was a man of principle. He had wronged Jesse and needed some way to right that wrong.

He looked at Jesse – saw how he was shifting uncomfortably; saw the intense heat in his cheeks; saw how his demeanour was still awkward and somewhat subdued.

And he knew his distraction hadn't been quite so beneficial for Jesse – no matter how hard he had tried to pretend with his jokey reply.

But it was a quick fix for him: "Hey, as soon as you're ready we'll drive up and rescue your car," he offered. And he meant it one hundred per cent; provided Jesse's 'readiness' coincided with his dad being on the road to recovery.

But he didn't need to worry. As had happened on so many previous occasions, Jesse was tuned into his wavelength: "My car's not important. We're here and... I think we should just get some food...and..."

The elevator doors opened, but Steve physically stopped Jesse from exiting.

"I'm talking about when my dad's awake and recovering and... everything," he floundered. "But, Jess, I want to do this for you."

"Steve, you don't owe me anything." Jesse's response was predictable – and rejected.

"I owe you more than you'll ever know," Steve fervently insisted; but Jesse's already unsteady gaze dropped to the floor and he shook his head:

"I'm surprised you found me," he whispered.

"Surprised I found you, or surprised I was looking?" Even as he asked the question, Steve wondered as to the wisdom of it.

Jesse sucked in a breath and his face paled dramatically. Steve didn't need to be a mind-reader to know that he'd triggered a very unpleasant memory:

"_You crippled my father." "You butchered him!"_

It was painful even for him, but must have been a thousand times worse for Jesse – but it was too late to take the words back.

Saviour came in the unlikely form of the elevator door starting to close – threatening to lock them both back in. Stiff-armed, Steve sent it retracting back on itself and he took the opportunity to grasp Jesse's arm and guide him towards the canteen.

"Let's just... Let's eat," he said, trying to change the mood; trying to revert back to the feeling of normality he'd so recently achieved.

Jesse nodded – but it was half-hearted at best.

Steve silently cursed. He'd done some good – he knew he had; and he genuinely felt he'd taken a step towards rebuilding the solid friendship he and Jesse had once shared.

He could only pray he hadn't blown it with his stupidly blurted out question.

* * *

Jesse trailed alongside Steve into the canteen; not quite trailing behind – because the detective really was making an effort; and he owed the man so much as to at least try and match that effort.

The question Steve had asked left him reeling; and struggling for an honest answer. He remembered Blackbrook with startling clarity: remembered every detail of Sheriff Harvey's office; remembered every word they had exchanged – when he'd gone from hero to potential villain; remembered his utter terror when he thought the only reason Steve would ever track him down would be to hold him accountable for Mark's demise.

So, no, he wasn't overly surprised Steve had been looking – but he could hardly voice his reasons to the man; could hardly say: _'I thought you were hunting me down because I killed your dad.'_

So he nodded his acquiescence to Steve's suggestion that they should eat and then he whispered – though hardly daring to find out the reasons: "What changed?"

They were, by now, standing in line – holding their trays and waiting to pick up their lunches. Jesse was so focussed on Steve that he barely noticed the speculative glances aimed his way; or the murmured conversations only just out of earshot.

Maybe Steve did, because his shoulders were hunched and tension radiated from him. But maybe that was simply down to the situation they were in – or, more likely, the question he had asked; now probably wishing he had never allowed it to escape his lips.

Steve still didn't speak, instead taking a moment to deliberate his choice of lunch before selecting a ham sandwich. Jesse chose his almost without thought – but he did inexplicably shy away from the tuna, which was closest and opted for the egg salad instead.

But then he honestly believed it didn't matter which sandwich he took; his stomach was churning too much for him to even consider eating.

Then he heard the first voice behind him:

"Jesse's back!"

It was swiftly followed by another:

"I heard he saved Doctor Sloan!"

"Saved him again! I heard Mark was dying and Jesse came back just in time!"

And then somebody clapped their hands. It was a slow clap at first; a single pair of hands – but it quickly caught on and a ripple of applause spread around the canteen.

"No..." Jesse's denial was an almost inaudible moan. "No, don't..."

Jesse turned and – not wanting to draw more attention to himself by actually running away – walked swiftly to the nearest exit.

* * *

Steve dumped his tray onto the counter and headed after his friend.

Leaving the fading – and now embarrassed – applause behind, he let Jesse find a quiet corridor before quickening his pace enough to stop him.

"Hey," he said, quirking a smile – albeit a forced smile: "I thought the idea was for _both_ of us to get some food."

Jesse looked down in shock at the tray he still held. He'd practically run from the canteen – and yet his egg salad sandwich still sat serenely upon it.

"I'm sorry... I..." Jesse's distress was almost palpable – and Steve cursed what he couldn't possibly have foreseen: Community General was a big hospital and both Mark and Jesse were well liked. Rumour and gossip spread both wildly and quickly – but Steve was grateful that it had also spread kindly, albeit truthfully, for his friend.

He was lucky his own words and actions hadn't turned Jesse into a pariah.

"I didn't..." Jesse kept his head bowed, his voice low: "That... It shouldn't have happened... I... I didn't deserve..."

"Jesse, you deserve that – and more!" Steve couldn't keep the passion from his voice – and he didn't even try to. "Jess, you asked me what changed. You asked me why I was even looking for you."

"I thought I'd killed him," Jesse whispered; clearly lost back in the time when all he'd known was anger and hatred. "I thought..."

"You thought wrong," Steve interrupted, before his friend's thoughts could turn down too dark a path. "As for what changed? Kirk chewed me out; Amanda beat some sense into me and..." He grasped Jesse's shoulder and smiled warmly at him: "And my dad said he wanted to thank you."

He was rewarded with an abashed smile – and with Jesse suddenly looking intently into his eyes:

"He'll be okay," the young doctor asserted – as ever putting his patient's welfare way above his own feelings. "If anybody can adapt, if anyone can get through this, then it's Mark."

"Better than both of us, at least," Steve murmured, sardonically – but kept it mostly under his breath. Then he smiled at Jesse and said more loudly: "I know – and we were both supposed to eat, so how about we split that sandwich. You know the sandwich you never paid for."

He was utterly relieved when Jesse snorted a laugh.

"They know who I am; it's straight out of my pay-check." But he opened the sandwich anyway and offered half to Steve.

Steve accepted, graciously – and took a large bite, leaning back against the wall as he did so: "So why Oregon?" he asked.

"I don't know," Jesse murmured. He remembered the thought: _I'll just keep going north until I run out of land._ But it wasn't a thought he was about to share. "I wasn't thinking," he temporised – and he remembered just how much he'd been not thinking, almost resulting in a close encounter with a UPS van. "Then I almost killed myself, so..."

He was rudely cut off as Steve almost choked on his sandwich. Coughing and red-faced, he eventually managed to swallow the mouthful and gasped out: "You did what?"

Utter shock dominated his expression and Jesse quickly replayed what he'd said – and realised how horrendously poor his choice of words had been. Given their recent history, it was hardly surprising Steve might interpret such a statement to mean that he'd actually tried to commit suicide.

"No! No!" he swiftly protested. "No, I was... distracted. I wasn't concentrating and almost got sideswiped by a truck. I left the freeway and just kept going."

Steve nodded, relief softening his features and relaxing his stance. Then he smirked: "Right past those forty foot billboards."

Jesse smiled and didn't even try to hide his chagrin. Like Steve, he too was finding normality in this banter. And, like Steve, it gave him hope for the future.

TBC


	34. Chapter 34

**I sometimes feel that I'm always apologising for delays with updates – but it was never my intention to leave it so long before posting this chapter. However, three weeks ago my car was hit by a drunk-driver. It was 5.30 in the afternoon.**

**I'm alright and thankfully (amazingly) the other driver was insured.**

**But it has been a hellish few weeks.**

**This is a short chapter – but it's all I have right now.**

**Thanks for your patience and special thanks for each and every review.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

Jesse shook his head in wry amusement. Trust Steve to know all about the gas station billboards; thus giving him ample ammunition for some gentle teasing. But, inadvertently, he'd also given Jesse some ammunition of his own:

"Amanda beat some sense into you?" He'd picked up on those words the moment Steve said them. As Steve's look turned rueful and his cheeks reddened, he added: "I wish I'd seen that."

"Man, you should've seen her," the detective retorted; but there was a smile on his face, in spite of how the associated memories burned. "She's a tigress, alright – and, by the way, you owe her dinner for the way she fought your corner!"

"So, when you said 'beat some sense' – you meant it literally?" Jesse asked; his eyes wide as he tried to imagine the normally placid pathologist resorting to physical violence.

Steve winced as he remembered how she'd slapped him – and how effective a tactic it had been: "I guess I didn't leave her with much choice," he murmured.

"And you guys are..?" Jesse didn't dare voice the question; wondering what strain all of this had put on _their_ relationship.

"We're fine," Steve assured him. Then, as the mood was in danger of descending into melancholy, he added: "Once I'd forgiven her for drugging me, then the rest..."

"She drugged you?"

"Yeah." Steve chuckled at the utterly disbelieving expression on his friend's face. "I'd like to say she slipped me a 'Mickey Finn', but you know Amanda; she wasn't as subtle as that. Just jabbed a needle straight into my arm."

"Oh, man..." The young doctor could only shake his head. A small part of him was nagging that they shouldn't be treating any of this so lightly – but he was working hard to suppress it. Steve was laughing and joking and their friendship felt almost as though the last seventy-two hours had never happened. The least he could do was go along – and keep his lurking dark thoughts strictly to himself.

But, typically, Steve seemed to pick up on them – because he clapped Jesse lightly on the shoulder and said: "Hey, it's all ancient history. All of it. Right up to maybe..." He glanced at his watch and his eyes widened: "Maybe forty minutes ago. We should get back."

Jesse nodded – equally surprised by how much time had passed. Surely, Amanda would be starting to get worried. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Steve spoke it aloud:

"I'm surprised Amanda hasn't sent out a search party."

"Maybe she did. Maybe they couldn't find us," Jesse answered as he became aware of their surroundings. They must have been walking while they talked – because they'd travelled quite some distance.

"Where are we anyway?" The detective asked as he, too, looked around. The corridor they were on was almost deserted – with only one nurse visible in the distance. Every door was closed and there was absolute silence making the air feel heavy and oppressive.

"Almost at the elevator," was Jesse's relieved response – and he quickened his footsteps; wanting to get away from their current location as soon as possible. It must have been an instinctive action from them: seeking out the least populated corridors; but he still tried hard not to see it as a bad omen that their unconscious wandering had led them to the ward where the terminally ill waited to die.

* * *

Amanda was trying very hard not to think the worst. She'd fully expected her friends to be back within ten minutes – about as long as it took to dash to the canteen, grab a sandwich and bring it back with them. Twenty minutes was her very outside estimate – knowing how desperately Steve needed to be with his dad.

When half an hour came and went, she felt the first stirrings of trepidation in her stomach.

At thirty-five minutes, she felt almost physically sick.

'_No need to worry,'_ she tried to tell herself – even as her eyes constantly flicked from Mark to the door and then back again. _'They have a lot to catch up on...'_

The clock ticked over another minute and horrible memories were replayed in her mind.

_A lot to catch up on like Steve grabbing Jesse by the lapels; Steve lifting him up and shaking the life out of him; Steve poised to hit him, whilst spouting words of anger and hatred; Jesse fleeing without a word to any one of them._

Amanda's gaze lingered on Mark. She didn't know what was happening with the two of them – and she had no way of finding out. But the not-knowing did nothing to quell her growingly impatient curiosity; or her sudden, unsettling feeling of dread.

Thirty-seven minutes had passed – and she could think of no rational reason why they had not yet returned. And so her imagination was allowed – and took – free reign.

'_What if Steve hadn't truly accepted hers and Kirk's words; what if he'd never even heard Mark when he'd spoken; what if he had attacked Jesse – old feelings of hatred and anger triggered by actually seeing him again; what if Jesse had once more fled..._

_What if? What if? What if?'_

Then she heard a rustle of movement and looked at Mark in utter shock. Previously comatose and unresponsive, Mark had shifted on the bed and heaved a sigh – the sigh of a person finding an infinitely more comfortable position to sleep in.

To sleep in.

Amanda's heart leapt.

Mark wasn't unconscious any more – he was just sleeping; as testified by his utterly contended sigh.

Her grin threatened to split her face in two – and then it only widened as the door opened and a sheepish Steve and Jesse crept into the room.

She wanted to be mad at them – for making her worry; for making her fear the worst; for making her wonder where she was needed the most, she almost wished she could split in two. Or in three, she amended – thinking longingly of her sons. It felt like forever since she'd spent any quality time with the boys – and she still hadn't found the way to talk to them about Mark.

But CJ and Dion were in Ron's more than capable hands – and she was allowed to fully focus on her other two 'boys'.

Inwardly, she rejoiced at what she saw: There was no awkwardness between them; no hesitancy, no discomfort and certainly no animosity. So it was easy for her to shrug off her annoyance and she offered them both a warm smile.

"How's he doing?" Steve asked – and his voice was tight, even as he avoided her appraising stare. It was clear he felt he had been gone too long and the guilt of it was weighing heavily on him; evident in his eyes.

"He's sleeping." There was a smile in her voice as she delivered the best, most positive news that she could – but Steve clearly didn't understand the importance of what she was saying. His shoulders slumped: "So no change," he mumbled.

Amanda opened her mouth to argue to the contrary – but Jesse, his own heart almost skipping a beat as he realised exactly what she was saying, beat her to it: "It's a change, Steve, it's a great change. It's the difference between a coma and... Well, a sleep... a deep sleep..."

"I don't get it! He looks the same!" Steve didn't try to keep the exasperation from his voice. He hated when he didn't understand what was happening – especially when it came to his dad.

"He's not the same, Steve – he's better." It was Jesse who stepped in to calm his tirade. "I know you don't like 'doctors speak' but you have to believe me. I'm not going to spout medicines and doses at you – but I will tell you that if you put an alarm clock next to your dad's bed, right now, then he'd wake up when it went off."

"Really?" Steve's voice still held a note of disbelief: "He's just sleeping?"

"Yes," Jesse answered. "I promise you."

"And it's the best thing for him," Amanda added.

"Sshh!" Steve instantly admonished. It had been hard for him to take in everything he was hearing – but it boiled down to one simple fact: his dad was sleeping. He felt obliged to ensure that he was not disturbed.

"If he's sleeping, then we let him sleep," he hissed. "If he needs medical care, that's fine – but otherwise, please, let him sleep. No alarm clocks."

"You know, the alarm clock was only ever a figure of speech," Jesse protested, half-heartedly. He knew that Steve already knew it.

He also knew that he was being dismissed.

Amanda preceded him to the door – and she paused as Jesse lingered for a moment longer.

Steve looked up at him and smiled. "Hey," he said: "I'll let you know when that alarm goes off."

Jesse let out a breath of polite laughter, but turned to leave the room with a heavy heart. He felt Amanda grasp his hand – and he tightened his fingers around hers.

Then his heart almost stilled in his chest as he heard a weary voice behind him:

"Why in the world would I need an alarm clock when I've got you two?" Mark asked.

* * *

To Steve, everyone else in the room ceased to exist as he whirled to face his dad – his grin threatening to split his face in two. He couldn't remember ever having felt so elated.

"Dad!" His grin was even evident in his voice.

"Steve," Mark replied with his own broad smile. More than one voice had invaded his slumber, but he had focussed mostly on only one: his son. And it wasn't so much the words that awoke him; more the need to see Steve again.

Much of his previous awareness had become fuzzy in his mind – and he needed to see for himself that his son was unharmed.

Then, at the very last second, he'd amended his words to include Jesse. Something, somehow, told him it was important that he did.

Tearing his gaze away from Steve – with a surprising amount of difficulty – he looked towards his former protégé. And found himself staring at the back of Jesse's head.

His opening words were intended to be light-hearted – and he replayed them in his head; looking for any hint of censure he might have displayed. Any suggestion of blame – even though his still-fuzzy thinking wasn't quite sure why he was actually looking for it.

His memories of Jesse since the accident were only memories of omission. He couldn't recall ever having seen the young man in any of his brief awakenings.

Still held in the thrall of pain-killing drugs, and not yet fully awake, he barely remembered his conversation with Steve as to why the young man was missing.

He returned his gaze to Steve, as he felt his hand being taken in a gentle grip.

Steve was still grinning uncontrollably – and there was a definite sheen of tears in his eyes. Then his eyes deviated from Mark's and he looked towards the door where Amanda and Jesse still stood.

Amanda, still holding his hand, was looking at Jesse. But Jesse was looking at the floor.

"Jess..." Steve had to try. He hadn't thought this far ahead; hadn't expected his dad to awaken so soon. But then he wondered how they could possibly have prepared for it anyway.

He was spared from the need to try by his dad's calm voice speaking into the silence:

"Jesse, thank you," Mark said, softly: "I believe I owe you my life."

TBC


	35. Chapter 35

**Thank you all for the incredible response to the last chapter. It looks like a lot of you were waiting for Mark to wake up. **

**Extra special thanks for all the good wishes extended to me. They really meant a lot – and I hope, in some way, this expresses my thanks.**

**As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason. **

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jesse felt Amanda squeeze his hand and he spared her a glance, but her face was blurred through his watery eyes.

It didn't matter – he knew exactly what her expression would be like: softly sympathetic and gently encouraging. But he didn't need any encouragement and the tears in his eyes were ones of joy.

Not even trying to hide the grin on his face, he turned towards the bed.

But his eyes found Steve's first. His best friend was beaming at him like he'd hit the lottery and Jesse, unashamedly, returned the grin. Everything that had recently gone between them was forgotten in that instant.

Every moment of pain and shame; every shred of guilt – _almost_ every shred of guilt – was alleviated.

But he still needed absolute forgiveness from Mark before he could even consider letting go completely.

Mark's words had been a balm, but he needed to hear more – rather than take them all at face value. Mark had awoken mere seconds ago: there would be confusion, disorientation and possibly a healthy dose of 'Survivors Syndrome' colouring his emotions.

Jesse wasn't about to rely on any of them.

He approached Mark slowly, easily keeping a smile on his face. He was genuinely happy to see Mark awake and aware – and seeming to bare no animosity at what had happened to him; least of all towards Jesse.

But he had to be sure. And he had to prove to Mark that he was still a good doctor and – some insecurities still nagging at him, in spite of himself – worthy of his position at Community General:

"How do you feel?" Jesse asked – and he asked in the same tone as he would for any other patient. He wasn't quite sure if he could allow this to be personal – not so soon. "Any pain?"

"Jesse, what are you..?" Steve asked, the smile suddenly falling from his face – and his bewilderment evident in his voice. This wasn't how he'd envisaged their reunion to be: "What are you talking about? I mean, you can't..."

"It's alright, Steve," Mark interjected quietly. "Jesse's just doing his job. He has to see me as just another patient. If the situation was reversed..."

"No! No wait. I'm not 'just doing my job'. I'm not..." Jesse's heart had sunk at his mentor's words – he'd been trying to be both a doctor and a friend – but more a friend.

He'd thought – hoped – that Mark might see it for himself. But then, thanks to Steve, he was forced to try and elaborate: "I... I care about you, Mark."

"Just like you care about all of your patients," Mark retorted – a quirk to his lips taking the sting from his words.

Jesse forced a smile of his own, but then squeezed his eyes shut. His feelings were on the verge of overwhelming him.

In his head he had failed: he didn't know how to communicate with his patient; didn't know how to react to, or interact with him; didn't know what he could say – even as he recognised Mark's gentle teasing as a kind of olive branch: an extension of friendship, silently saying that it didn't matter what had gone before.

But he couldn't take it at face value; couldn't trust his instincts any more. His gaze fell to the floor and all of his good feeling fled.

He hadn't been ready for Mark's awakening – he thought he was, but he wasn't – and he wasn't sure when, or if, he ever could be.

* * *

Mark heaved in a deep breath. He was still somewhat reeling from the fact that he was still alive; was still weak and confused; was still trying to come to terms with his new disability – and the psychologists who were seemingly beating a path to his door.

He needed his son by his side – and he knew he had that, unequivocally. But he also knew his son would need his best friend.

Mark could see the anguish in Jesse's eyes; he knew something of what had gone before – and there was only one way he could see for them all to move forward.

"Where's Amanda? Wasn't she here before?"He asked; aiming a supplicating glance at Steve and deliberately injecting a certain of amount of bewilderment into his voice.

Steve glared back at him. Though he knew why his dad was effectively asking him to leave, it didn't sit any the better with him. But it was his dad and he was alive – in spite of everything – and he wasn't sure he'd be capable of denying him anything.

But nor was he about to let him have everything entirely his own way. For better or worse, he knew that Mark and Jesse shouldn't be having this conversation alone.

He got to his feet and yanked the door open; it didn't take a genius to figure out that Amanda would be lurking just outside the door.

And he was right.

Without giving her a moment to protest, he hurled her unceremoniously back into the room.

Mark and Jesse looked back at them with identical expressions of disbelief – and they both sought out the privacy they both felt they needed; albeit in their own way:

"Steve, just give me a few minutes. Please," Mark requested; his sympathetic eyes straying towards Jesse.

Jesse's response – though similar was much more flustered: "Please... I need..." His nervous gaze never quite knew where to rest, so it settled nowhere. "I should examine..." He trailed off miserably under the strength of Steve's glare.

"You don't need to examine dad, Jess. Amanda's been here all along." He smiled at her, warmth and gratitude evident in his features. Then he looked back at Jesse and his eyes hardened with absolute intent: "It's not about you, Jess. It's not about me. It's not about dad, or Amanda. It's about all of us."

Amanda nodded and let go of Steve's hand. She moved to sink into a chair at Mark's bedside – and her expression offered Steve her full support.

"It's about family. And that's what we are." He looked at Jesse, waiting for him to nod his acquiescence, before adding: "_All_ of us."

A lengthy silence ensued – a silence that quickly grew to be uncomfortable. Steve couldn't find the words to break it and he wondered if his idea really had been a good one. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet uncomfortably: "I just thought..."

"No, you were right, son." Mark, looking reassuringly strong, interrupted his murmuring. "I think it's right we should talk about what happened to me."

Jesse's head jerked up and his gaze was almost panicked. His eyes flit between the three of them and his mouth opened – but he couldn't seem to find any words.

"Jess..." Steve said, trying to head off the seemingly imminent panic attack.

"Jesse, you saved my life." Mark's words – strong and assured overrode him: "No matter what else happened, I am alive thanks to your actions."

Jesse looked back at him with tear-bright eyes and, in that moment, both Steve and Amanda ceased to exist.

Jesse spoke solely to his mentor – as though they were the only two people in the room:

"Mark, you can't... You can't just not care about what happened to you..." His eyes strayed towards his amputation site – and then darted quickly away.

"Oh, I care, Jesse. I care very much indeed." Mark retorted; his voice calm and controlled. "I care that my dear friend is hurting so badly over something so far beyond his control."

"But..."

Jesse's protest wasn't even given the chance to be voiced.

"But nothing!" Mark started to protest – then he gasped in a breath as something uncomfortable twinged in his chest. He'd tried to sit up – to force his point home to Jesse – realising, too late, what a bad idea it was.

"That's enough... Enough..." Jesse seemed reluctant but, as always, the needs of his patient came first. He reached towards Mark's IV line, intending to adjust the flow of morphine. But then Mark's hand clamped down on his forearm.

"Don't, Jesse. Not yet, please." Mark sank down against his pillows and hoped his words were enough. They appeared to be, as Jesse let out a deep sigh and sank down onto the edge of the bed next to him.

Mark kept a hold of his arm as he next spoke:

"Maybe there are surgeons – specialists – somewhere on this Earth who could have reattached the limb. I don't know. I do know that I wouldn't have even tried." Mark offered a sad smile – and was heartened to see it returned by Jesse: "But medicine changes by the hour and it's impossible to keep up with every ongoing advance. And I do know that, when your patient is in danger of bleeding to death or dying from septicaemia – when his arm is held together by little more than sinew – you don't have time to fly somebody in from Europe."

"But..." Jesse tried to protest – but even the one word he uttered was half-hearted.

"Jesse, sometimes it's too easy to forget exactly who your patient is," Mark interrupted, gently. "Sometimes it's even easier to distance yourself from them and just look at the symptoms, the injury. But I'm a doctor, Jesse." His sad smile returned: "And I think I knew what was going to happen to me even before you did."

At last, Jesse looked directly at him – and his eyes were brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry!" He gasped. Even though he had recognised every word Mark had said – and agreed with them all – the need to apologise was all-consuming: "I'm sorry!"

Mark's smile turned from sad to benign and he released Jesse's arm, instead reaching up to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Although I don't blame you in any way," he stressed: "I think it's important for you to know that I forgive you." The benign smile gave way to genuine warmth: "You are one of the finest young doctors I've ever had the privilege of knowing – and, not only do I forgive you, but I thank you. Not only did you save my life, but..." He deliberately glanced down at his mutilated arm: "I probably would have amputated at the shoulder."

* * *

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut. Mark's words had been high praise indeed. Whether intended or not, Mark had exonerated him completely.

The knowledge that his mentor wouldn't have even attempted a procedure he had, ultimately, been successful at filled him with a guilty kind of warmth.

Guilty because Mark's arm was still gone from the elbow down – and warmth because of the forgiveness extended to him – and the knowledge that Mark wouldn't have fared any better than him.

"I... Thank you..." Jesse gasped, still not quite able to fully grasp hold of his emotions.

He wanted to pull Mark into a hug; to physically display his every emotion: his joy; his relief; his gratitude – and his residual pain.

But it wasn't a thought he could follow through with. Mark was still too weak; too fragile. And the only way he could express his thanks was by patting the hand now resting on his shoulder.

Mark seemed to understand the sentiment, as he murmured: "You're very welcome, Jesse," before letting his hand drop back to his side and drifting off to sleep.

Jesse immediately missed the contact – but was left bereft for only the briefest of seconds. A strong hand dropped onto his shoulder, even as a gentle arm slipped around his waist.

Steve and Amanda.

He turned into their comfort.

"He's going to be okay..." he whispered, with a hint of disbelief in his voice. He hadn't realised just how much he'd been held to ransom – by both his fears and his nightmares – until that point. "He's really going to be okay."

"Yeah, he is," Steve breathed – realisation dawning in his voice: "You know, if I can see anyone adapting to this, then it's dad. And when he gets his prosthetic arm, it'll be like he's almost back to normal."

"That's right," Amanda added, smiling through her own tears – even though she couldn't source those tears; be they born of happiness or relief – or even a residual sadness at what they had all been through: "You know, I don't think it will even slow him down."

"Yeah," Jesse agreed, as they all turned to look down at the sleeping man. "I've never known anyone like him..."

They all sucked in a shocked breath when Mark's eyes suddenly opened. He blinked up at them and then yawned.

"You know, I appreciate the kind words," he said, with a kindly crinkle to his eyes: "But I am very tired – and I'll never sleep with all of you standing there talking about me."

There were assorted murmured apologies and two of the three left the room.

Steve, however, hooked his foot around a chair leg and dragged it closer to the bed. He wasn't a great believer in happy endings – and so wasn't ready to leave just yet.

And so he was the only witness as his dad settled back against his pillows and closed his eyes, murmuring: "Actually I was thinking of getting a hook, rather than a prosthetic arm..."

THE END

**Thank you for every single comment left for this story – both good and bad. Feedback makes for a better writer and you all help me to grow.**

**This story has been a labour of love and I'm extremely happy to have finished it. It was very hard work at times.**

**I hope to be back with something new soon.**

**Best wishes – and thanks for reading.**

**Helen**


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